The Fox, The Hare and The Tiger
by CSI Clue
Summary: A grim situation brings about a bond between Arthur, Eames and Ariadne that goes beyond friendship.
1. Chapter 1

_Prolog—in retrospect_

_The one truism Arthur understood intimately was that people were vastly more complicated than they ever realized. That included himself of course; there were aspects of his own character that Arthur rarely examined, if ever, and he was comfortable with that. He knew who he was, what he was, and how to keep all that on an even keel._

_Consequently, when fate decided to throw two beautifully twisted wrenches into his life, Arthur foundered, reassessed, and did what any good Point Man was supposed to do: he improvised._

_Ariadne thought she'd seen it all. 'All' however, hadn't included the tour puzzle that was Dreaming, and the other players of the game, who refused to stay in neat categorizations. She understood strategy and had a competitive streak she wasn't ashamed to show; nevertheless, for a woman who could fold the sixth arrondissment of Paris like a tortilla, the intricate workings of the men in her life remained an ever-changing landscape of fears and wonders._

_For all her compact size, Ariadne had never stepped back from the challenge of pursuing what she wanted, much to the surprise of others, and the real question-more often than not-was figuring out the 'what' rather than the how._

_Eames was far more than anyone knew. He wore his brassy personality like one of his bright shirts, and under it, his true nature was hidden from casual view but still very much a framework of power. He'd known from an early age precisely what he was and how to fit himself into any selected scenario he might stroll into. He was the consummate chameleon, letting his hide shift while staying true on the inside._

_However, some matters were much more than skin-deep, and once Eames became aware of his own vulnerability, he found himself in the odd position of having his choices make him, instead of the usual way around._

Part One

Arthur is quietly indulging himself as he surreptitiously studies Ariadne's ass. Small, yes, but definitely round, and nicely defined in her jeans as she digs around under her drawing table for her fallen pen. It isn't often that the opportunity comes to inspect the architect's structural base, so Arthur makes it a point to scope while the scoping is good. He estimates he has three seconds at best to consider and commit to memory the cheeky details before she straightens up, or anyone notices what he is doing.

Not that he is alone, Arthur acknowledged sourly. The other man in the room might be casting gazes towards that denim-clad derriere too. It is the natural order of things; presenting behavior always invites inspection from those capable of accepting the offer. Not that Ariadne is offering—at least not consciously—but testosterone being what it is, the appeal is there all the same.

Arthur glances over at Eames to find him staring back, a smirk flashing across his cupid mouth. Without a word said, the other man's amusement is clear, and Arthur flushes a little at being caught. He meets Eames' gaze squarely though, making it clear that being busted and being remorseful are not the same thing.

Eames' smirk broadens into a full smile and he arches an eyebrow, which is a silent 'touché' in his own non-verbal vocabulary. Arthur accepts his victory and turns away from Eames only to find Ariadne now staring at him.

It is an uncomfortable sensation, and Arthur fights back the urge to automatically blurt a denial.

She scowls, but not at him; with a resigned sigh, Ariadne stalks over to Eames, and digging into her front jeans pocket, fishes out a crumpled five Euro bill, handing it to him. With Cheshire cat smugness, Eames takes it, smoothes it out and pockets the money.

A quick suspicion dawns in Arthur's mind, and he opens his mouth, but Ariadne swings a glance at him that tries to be stern. It fades a bit, shifting to wry amusement before she tosses her hair back and steps to her drawing table.

Eames returns to his files, Ariadne to her sketch, and Arthur stands there, feeling heat across his face. "Okay—anyone want to tell me what _that_ was all about?"

"Nothing much," Eames murmurs, not glancing up. "Just a small wager between the a-mazing one and myself. Nothing you need worry about."

"Money changed hands," Arthur points out, feeling warm but determined to see the matter through. Ariadne refuses to look up, and hunches her shoulders a bit more.

"That's part of how a wager works," Eames chides softly. "Really, Arthur, you're usually brighter than this."

"Eames bet me that you would stare at my ass if I bent over," Ariadne supplies in a monotone, not bothering to look up from the paper pinned on her board. "I was positive that you wouldn't. Clearly he knows you better than I do."

At a loss, Arthur swings to face Ariadne, hand on his lean hips. "You _know_ he was staring too."

Eames snorts, but Ariadne sighs. "Of _course _he was, but that wasn't the point. The _point_ was that you _wouldn't_ stare."

"Why _shouldn't_ I?" Arthur mutters. "I wasn't blatant; I wasn't obnoxious or even obvious." He feels an amused sense of defensiveness at how much this point matters. Ariadne blows an errant curl from her eyes and blinks at him.

"Eames is instinct before intellect—" This brings a mildly provoked rumble from the Englishman that Ariadne ignores, "And you are reason before reaction—at least, that was my assumption before putting my ass on the line, literally."

"I'm also opportunistic," Arthur reasons. "A trait useful in my line of work."

"And hormonally driven," Eames adds oh-so-helpfully. "Practically seething with testosterone, our Arthur is."

The glance Ariadne shoots him is withering to say the least, but Eames refuses to wilt and smiles, teeth white against his tanned face.

"I don't actually need the testimonial, particularly from an uninformed source," Arthur mutters, irritated.

"You're both horndogs," Ariadne decides, pointing her pencil from Arthur to Eames in mild accusation. "No pissing contests, please; the bet is done, and I'll just be more cautious about bending over."

"No need to get formal on _my_ account, love," Eames counters, going for an innocent expression. "After all, pencils _will _drop."

"Fine," she tells him with a dangerous smirk. "Then _you _can retrieve them and I can ogle _your _ass."

Eames considers this for a moment, then nods. "Done."

Ariadne turns back to her board, smothering a chuckle as she absently considers the design before her. Her mind, however, is on Eames and Arthur; it often was these days, much to her chagrin.

Two men: diametric opposites, and both intriguing. Ariadne knows a lot of the fascination is simply because they are older, and worldly in a way that her peers at the university are not; Arthur and Eames have life experience far and above anyone she knows.

And beyond that, they are interesting. They each have ferocious intelligence, although Eames does his best to hide his. Arthur _absorbs_—Ariadne has never seen anyone able to concentrate and retain to the capacity that Arthur does. The man has an eidetic memory and the ability to utilize it in an instant. Eames pulls together brilliant insights on an intuitive scale, reading people constantly on multiple levels.

They don't condescend to her either; both Arthur and Eames treat her with the respect she deserves, and not just for her building skills. Sure, there is some gentle teasing from Eames about her size, and occasionally Arthur goes a bit far in being protective of her, but on the whole, Ariadne knows that neither man loses sight of her own stubbornly keen intellect.

For one thing, she won't let them.

And, Ariadne admits to herself privately, they are both attractive, damn it. She's tried not to let that factor into anything, but it's difficult to push away the appeal of the broad shoulders, the strong hands and the confident swagger they each offer. Ariadne knows her own quick glances are just as hormonally driven as any they might have throw her way, and just as harmless.

She tries to concentrate. Cobb has sent them the particulars of a job that will just about pay off her last student loan with enough left over to visit Greece, so getting the last details of the train station right should be foremost on her mind. It will involve leaving Paris of course, and Ariadne is a little nervous about that. The last trip—to Sydney and then to LA—nearly wiped her out in terms of fatigue. Still, the chance to get ahead financially makes sense, and she bends over her board again, trying to decide if the tiles on the walls should be grey or white.

A simple job; hook up the traveler in the VIP airport lounge, take him to a train station in a Dream, stay under long enough to find his password for the lab security access and send it along to the in-house security for his company. On the surface of it all, it seems fairly straightforward. The company—an obscure pharmaceutical with good connections—is paying well, no questions asked. Arthur has had a few, but none of his suspicions have panned out, and the three of them have agreed to take the mission.

They've been doing that a lot, Ariadne notes—working as a trio, with periodic long-distance support from Yusuf and Dom. It's a comfortable arrangement so far; Ariadne likes the way it works. Any time, day or night, she can wander into the warehouse and settle in to work. Arthur might be there, or Eames, or both, or none—the variations are endless and flowing. They practice Dreaming, and take turns as Dreamers and Watchers; Ariadne has become as proficient at setting up the Pasiv as she is at building Dreamscapes, and the knowledge pleases her.

It's interesting, intimate almost to dream with either man. Jaunts with Eames are adventures in the most physical extremes: mountaineering, hang gliding, and once, memorably, yachting. Eames loves the challenge of doing the physically impossible with gleeful joy. He tries on new faces endlessly, and Ariadne never knows who to expect—a hooker in a pink fright wig, a young marine on leave, a pregnant hot dog vendor. Eames enjoys pushing the limits of what a Dream can do, and gives her a taste of the extremes.

Arthur prefers structure. Not surprising, but some of his choices are—deep labyrinths with walls of gold and emerald. Towers that spiraled skyward in great science fiction beauty. In dreams, Arthur plays Hide and Seek with ruthless intensity, timing himself, daring Ariadne to find him as quickly as possible, or seeking her out just as fast. He keeps his intensity, but adds a reckless, sometimes cheeky streak to matters, and that makes her laugh.

When Ariadne takes the reins, she prefers to build cities that blurred the line of dream and reality. It's almost dangerous how good she'd gotten at making entire worlds, and the comfort of her chess piece keeps her from taking matters too far.

Eames had once asked her to recreate limbo, but she'd refused. "Never," Ariadne had told him flatly. "That way if I ever see it again, I'll know it's legit."

00oo00oo00

Eames can't fight the tiny prickle of apprehension at the back of his neck. It isn't a solid feeling, just a twinge now and then; a warning that he knows he shouldn't rationalize away, but can't fully express either. Arthur's research into the job hasn't uncovered anything remotely suspect, and yet the sensation persists. He rolls his head, and a moment later, warm hands are rubbing his shoulders.

He damned near purrs. "Oh mon ange, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ariadne snorts. "It's pretty clear you're tense, Julian, and you're distracting me. Try and relax."

Eames sighs as her warm, small fingers squeeze his muscles, alleviating part of the tension. Ariadne is surprisingly strong for such a small thing, and he savors the attention as much as the massage, feeling better by the moment.

He likes Ariadne; she is smart and pretty and not intimidated by him in the least. She showed her genius during the inception job, and since then, Eames has discovered much more to like about her. She is witty, and makes an adorable drunk, and she most definitely DOES have a cute ass—on that point, he is in full accord with Arthur.

Too, despite her size, Ariadne is decidedly a woman, not a girl, and Eames has fantasized what having her would be like. Not that it will ever happen, of course. Sleeping with your co-workers is still a risky and dangerous idea—one look at Dom and Mal proves that—but the idea is delicious enough, and he's mapped out a long, leisurely fantasy involving a shower stall, steaming water and lots of soap . . .

"You're groaning—does this hurt?" Ariadne asks, and Eames opens his eyes, aware that he is sporting the start of an erection.

"No, no, love—it's wonderful. I think you've got a second career in those hands," he tells her lightly, pushing the daydream away. "Architect by day, masseuse by night."

"Dream on," she chides, "my shoulder rubs are purely amateur, Mr. Eames. What's bothering you?"

He hesitates, then speaks up, his tone serious. "Something about this latest mission bothers me, pet. And worse than that, I can't put my finger on precisely what. It's rather like having a spectre breathing down my spine. Nebulous and persistent."

"Have you mentioned this to Arthur?" Ariadne asks him in a practical tone. Her fingers keep kneading into his knots, and Eames sighs blissfully for a moment before replying.

"Arthur prefers specifics," Eames grumbles. "Tangible points. I have none, just a gut feeling."

Ariadne says nothing, and Eames gives another sigh, luxuriating in the massage, then after a moment longer, pulls away and looks over his shoulder at her. "Thank you love—for rubbing and listening."

"You have good instincts," Ariadne replies gently. "I'll keep my eyes open as well."

He nods, touched that she takes his unease seriously, and watches her walk back to her modeling table, lean little hips swinging slightly.

Women. Eames likes them.

And men.

In a world generally geared to 'either/or' Eames falls firmly into the camp of 'all' and is perfectly happy with that. His libido isn't restricted to any particular gender, a realization that Eames had accepted back at age thirteen, and has lived comfortably with since then. Men and women are different, yes, but both of them taste nice, and cuddle comfortably, and have the capacity to make him quite happy in many circumstances. He considers himself a connoisseur of sensuality, and having both lanes of the highway open for his travels suits Julian Eames very well.

Consequently, it's marvelous fun to realize that both of his current associates are not only professionally excellent, but also damned attractive. Eames appreciates the bonus of that, definitely. It's an added extra, an additional benefit to make long days of planning that much easier to bear. Whether it's imagining nuzzling Ariadne's throat, or nibbling one of Arthur's earlobes, either fantasy worked just as well.

With a sigh, he looks back at the dossier on the subject and searches through it again, looking to see if he can find something to justify his discomfort.


	2. Chapter 2

Sofia is chilly, and Arthur is glad he's brought his London Fog for the trip. The secret to warmth is layering, and currently he has enough on to be reasonably comfortable. The airport is modern, and it isn't difficult to catch a taxi to take him to the Grand, and the superior suite that will be waiting there. Ariadne and Eames should be in already, and ready for the last minute briefing if all was on schedule.

He looks out the window at the passing buildings, noting the blend of Old World and New in the architecture, and wondering if Ariadne is sketching any of it. She probably is; the woman carries a notebook with her everywhere, and all sorts of pencils. Arthur has wasted a fair amount of time just watching her draw; the images of her curled up somewhere, the tiny scratching sound of her pencil on paper have him enthralled.

A lot about Ariadne has him enthralled, and it's a situation Arthur isn't really prepared to handle yet. He's good with theoretical interactions, and contingency plans when it comes to the jobs, but in the face of real interactions with real people, Arthur invariably falls back to a 'wait and see' attitude. Working with Cobb had made that an easy position for years; being the leader of a new team makes matters more complicated for Arthur now.

And Ariadne herself multiplies that complication simply by being Ariadne.

He climbs out of the taxi, tips the driver and takes his single suitcase into the lobby of the Grand, moving to the front desk with an easy stride, just another international businessman to the casual eye. Arthur picks up his passkey, and once he's reached his room he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

_In yet, darling? _Reads the text.

Arthur wishes it was Ariadne, but knows it isn't. He types a reply, sets his suitcase aside, and waits for the knock on the door.

Eames slips in a few moments later, flashing a smile. "One thing I must commend you on- your tailor dresses you nicely, Arthur."

"I pay her enough," comes the reply, but he follows it up with a brief smile. "Where's Ariadne?"

"Should be done showering soon," Eames replies. "Someone dropped a drink into her lap mid-flight and she didn't fancy wearing orange juice for the rest of the day."

He lounges in one of the armchairs of the room, a long relaxed figure in pale khaki dress slacks and sports coat, his Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the throat despite the weather. Arthur suspects Eames' metabolism is higher than average; the man seems to radiate heat no matter the season.

In truth, Eames exudes _more _than heat, and several times in the last year, Arthur has found himself the subject of slow and deliberate scrutiny. It's annoying and flattering and Arthur finds the best way to deal with it is simply to patiently ignore the occasional veiled invitation in Eames' blue-grey eyes.

Arthur has been hit on before by people who've mistaken his dress sense and aloof demeanor as indicative of an alternative lifestyle; he has no problem in gently setting the record straight. Homosexuality is a non-issue; as long as his associates are professional and competent, they can love whomever they want as far as Arthur is concerned. His own tastes run to fairly conventional heterosexuality (outside of a few stray fantasies), and Arthur accepts that too.

In truth, life is too short to dwell on statistical norms, and there is no point in feeding Eames' occasional passes, flattering as they are.

"Flight okay?" Arthur asks.

Eames shrugs. "All right I suppose. Found a few interesting types to add to the repertoire. Listen, are we getting any nosh? I'm utterly starved."

"You're kidding. We've got a walk-through to do and you're worried about food?"

"Arthur, in-flight meals are notoriously nasty and I wasn't about to risk salmonella on the way over. Be a love and send down for a nice tea; I'm sure they do a decent one around here."

"This is going on_ your _hotel bill," Arthur grumbles, picking up the house phone in one hand and the room service menu with the other. Pleased, Eames stretches out even more, flaunting his smirk as he folds his hands behind his head. When Arthur is done ordering, he shoots the Englishman a dry glare that is sunnily ignored. "Stop smirking. I hope all they have is some ancient Lipton's in freeze-dry packets."

"Christ, I'd rather drink l'eau de sewer," Eames shudders. "Mercenary I may be, but some things are sacred, you know."

Arthur waits a beat, and then crosses the room, his expression becoming serious. "Ariadne said you still had qualms about the job," he mutters, resting one lean haunch against the arm of the sofa. "Tell me."

Eames drops his playful attitude and rubs the back of his neck slowly. "I can't, because it's nothing solid. I know we're committed for tomorrow, but I'll be damned glad when it's over and done. There's just something off about our hire."

Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets. "I checked and re-checked—Hillstrom pans out, and so does Montero Pharmaceuticals."

"I know," Eames replies, slightly sullen. "I *did* say it the feeling wasn't solid."

Arthur stares at him a moment longer. Eames, for all his flippant remarks and asides is astute, and his instincts have stood them all in good stead. His unease is the group's unease, and Arthur doesn't LIKE being uneasy.

"So we'll be . . . careful," Arthur tells him quietly. "Very careful."

Eames nods back. "Yes."

They stare at each other a moment longer, and then Eames sighs. "Bloody Bulgaria."

A knock at the door brings Ariadne instead of Room Service; she wears jeans and a long nubbly sweater in heather with a matching knit beret and gloves.

"Dear God, aren't _you_ the kewpie doll today?" Eames smirks, striving to lighten the atmosphere in the room. "They let you up into a hotel room with two strange men looking like that?"

"Bulgaria is _freezing!"_ she announces, slinking in. "Why can't we ever get a job in Hawaii, or Cancun?"

"Because all our clients are notoriously cheap about sending us anywhere fun," Eames replies, patting the arm of his chair to entice her closer. She settles in against it, and doesn't resist his arm around her back in companionable support.

Arthur frowns. "They're paying us enough that we could go to Cancun on our down time."

"All three of us? Cool. I could use some time on the beach with a Kindle and a coconut flavored drink," Ariadne sighs. "I've got a two-piece that probably still fits."

This is not a helpful image for Arthur; he blinks a little to refocus, but the picture of Ariadne in anything two-piece is *definitely* worth considering.

Later, in the shower, with a fistful of slippery suds, well-applied.

From Eames' lascivious smirk, it's clear he's considering it right now, so Arthur clears his throat loudly. "Okay, nice as that is, we *do* have a job ahead, and I'm not going to—"

A knock on the door interrupts whatever Arthur isn't going to do, and when Ariadne opens it, the Room service trolley rolls in.

It isn't Lipton's; it's hot, smooth Darjeeling, and even Arthur has a cup, along with a few scones.

00oo00oo00

Things go smoothly. Ariadne tries not to let her nerves show, and Arthur has a point about practicing; it does make matters easier when your hands automatically know what to do around the Pasiv. She's grateful for her wristwatch, and the fact that both Eames and Arthur went under so quickly, the two of them sprawled on the leather sofas of the VIP lounge, looking for all the world like weary travelers. Only the thin silvery lines snaking from their wrists say otherwise.

She counts the minutes, and looks again at the subject, noting his pallor. Hillstrom seems run-down and slightly disheveled; from what Arthur has uncovered, he's on the verge of being fired from the company and it shows. Ariadne resists the urge to check the man's pulse or brush his forehead; instead she watches the levels of somniacin drop and listens for any footsteps outside the locked door.

A minute from the last of the sedative, Ariadne carefully puts headsets on Arthur and Eames, then presses the iPod to play. Although she can't hear it, she knows the music—Brubeck's _Take Five_—is Eames' choice and she approves of it.

One can take only so much Edith Piaf, Ariadne admits to herself.

Arthur stirs first, and she reaches for his wrist, pulling the needle out gently as she looks into his narrow gaze. He nods solemnly, which is answer enough, and pulls his headset off. Eames is waking now, humming a bit as he moves to sit up.

Within thirty seconds the Pasiv is tucked in a larger briefcase, Eames is across from Hillstrom, hidden behind a copy of _Conde Nast Traveler_, and Ariadne is curled on Arthur's lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear; the very image of young romance.

She definitely likes this camouflage part of the job; up-close, Arthur's matching dimples are delightful, and the faint traces of his cologne make Ariadne want to squirm a bit. She keeps her back to the yawning Hillstrom, and murmurs, her tone soft. "So you got it?"

"Yep. Could you maybe not . . . wiggle?" Arthur replies, his voice slightly strained.

"Sorry—do you want me to get up?" Ariadne asks, trying not to stare too much. Arthur's eyes are a lovely shade of brown, somewhere between chocolate and whisky. He shakes his head with flattering speed that makes her a little breathless.

"No, it's . . . okay," Arthur assures her, his expression both embarrassed and shyly sweet. "I just don't want Eames making cracks about lap dances later, though. The maze was perfect, by the way."

Ariadne dips her head in shy acknowledgement, bringing her lips close to his nearest ear, whispering into it. "So can we really go to Cancun?"

"Anytime," Arthur agrees, trying like hell to keep his voice steady and make his tone sound romantic, in case they're overheard. That warm breath of hers against his ear makes his inner thighs tense, and he fights the definite stirrings of an erection even as he luxuriates in the sweet press of her thighs. "Although I warn you, I burn like the albino I am."

"Sunscreen," Ariadne murmurs. "We'll get you the good stuff."

Arthur risks a glance at Eames; the other man arches an eyebrow and mouths something that looks suspiciously like 'get a room' but he can't be sure. From overhead comes the muted announcement for the boarding of Air Granada's flight to Milan.

Hillstrom rises wearily and slowly picks up his coat, making his way out of the lounge. Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye, covering his examination by lightly toying with one of Ariadne's tresses. The three of them wait until the man leaves, and once the lounge door closes behind him, they freeze, waiting ten seconds longer.

Eames speaks first. "Right. Let's go. I won't be happy until we've got all six of our feet planted somewhere other than here."

"No argument," Arthur murmurs, reluctant to let Ariadne off his lap just the same. "The Lear out there on the tarmac is ours."

It's not a good idea to travel together, but it was the first available flight out, and the price was right.

"Brilliant," Eames sighs with relief, and tosses aside the magazine.


	3. Chapter 3

The jet takes off half an hour later and Eames stares out the window, lost in thought. He's aware of Ariadne stretched out on her seat, sleeping, and across from him Arthur with his bottled water, finishing up the encrypted message to their client on his laptop. The open bar in the back has yielded a nice gin, but even that doesn't quite take the edge of his unease. Rather than say anything more though, Eames drinks, and thinks about how to talk the other two into a vacation.

They need it; God knows they do. They've _earned_ it after this last job, and Ariadne's suggestion keeps echoing in his head because Cancun has a nice multi-syllable sound to it, along with two-piece and sunbathing and Montero-

He frowns. Montero. Eames juggles the name in his head for a moment, turning it over again, pulling the letters apart, and a second later they regroup, making ice flood his veins.

Net Room.

His breath catches. There've been rumors that Net Room had started up again, working illicit jobs just under the radar. Nobody likes them; certainly not the corporations and mobsters who hire them for the dirty side of espionage and intimidation. Net Room can build computer viruses, destroy commerce, defame and defraud whole industries with nothing more than several well-placed clicks on a keyboard. Lately, they've been focusing more on the slash and burn tactics, and it's been said that Dreaming tech is their next target.

Carefully, Eames takes a pen from his pocket and scribbles 'Montero' on the napkin under his vodka. Under it he adds 'anagram!' and passes the note to Arthur, waiting until he sees the other man read it and flinch, ever so slightly. Arthur looks up, and in that single pulse of a moment, Eames thinks he's absolutely gorgeous.

It's an irrational thought, not really appropriate here; nevertheless, Arthur's wide, dark pupils and pursed lips bring up a reflexive response in Eames, somewhere under his fly.

Eames suddenly realizes that part of his own scrambled mentality is due to more than just the alcohol in the vodka.

"Shit," Arthur manages and from the look on his face, he's feeling the drugs too. They both glance at Ariadne, sleeping soundly, half-open carton of juice still on her tray.

Arthur reaches down for his coat; Eames knows he's going for the ceramic knife sewn in the lining, just as he realizes Arthur isn't going to make it, he knows that neither is he.

The last thing Eames sees is the table top looming up before his face hits it.

00oo00oo00

It's cold. Arthur feels this before even opening his eyes. The chill is pervasive and numbing. The jet is still flying, the cabin is dark, and the air is on full-blast. Arthur tenses against the plastic bonds around his ankles, against the ones holding his wrists together behind his back as he lies wedged into the reclining jet seat.

He feels the duct tap against his lips, the taste of it slightly sour.

He damns himself for eighteen different kinds of idiot. A good point man would have never let the team travel together. A good point man would have called off the job at the first sign of unease from a long-time team member. A good point man wouldn't-

Arthur's inner scourging is interrupted by a muffled groan; he shifts in his seat a little for a better view and sees the dark bulk of Eames in the next seat. Eames is straining against his plastic cuffs, and not succeeding, although it's interesting to see the amount of quiet effort he's putting into the job.

He catches Eames' eye, and when the man twists to face him, it's shocking to see a trickle of dried blood along one nostril. Eames has tape over his mouth too, but the expression in his eyes says a lot about regret, annoyance, and determination. It gives Arthur some hope, and he tries to indicate that he's all right.

Carefully he lifts his head, trying to see to the other seat; beyond the bulk of Eames, and in a seat across the aisle, Ariadne is trussed and still out. Arthur wonders how big a dose they gave her, and he feels anger begin to surge through him at the uncertainty, the fucking *balls* of whoever these bastards are.

He fights the duct tape on his mouth for long minutes, letting his spit wet it, loosen it enough so that when Arthur finally forces his jaws wide, the tape pulls loose under his chin and lets him talk. "Ariadne," he whispers to Eames.

The other man's brows come together, and he tries to roll over, but Arthur shakes his head. "Out. Might have overdosed her."

Eames' glance is suddenly glacial, and seeing it, Arthur feels re-assured. He whispers again. "How long?"

The Englishman frowns a bit, and looks upward, as if thinking. Finally he winks three times at Arthur, who nods. That matches his own guess of three hours. Three hours flying is nearly two thousand miles towards an unknown destination, and Arthur tries to picture a circle with Sofia in the center; tries to think where they might be going, but the effort doesn't yield anything, so he turns his thoughts instead to Net Room.

The organization is a nebulous one, known best for mercenary cybercrime more than anything else. Arthur has heard that they have become interested in Dreaming and Extractions, but the idea that they would kidnap him and his team still seems unbelievable.

Then again, Arthur realizes, if someone _else _paid for it—and that seems very likely—then that changes the game. He closes his eyes and tries to think of any assets he, Eames and Ariadne have right now; any advantages. Both he and the other man have experience with weapons and hand to hand fighting, which Arthur hopes aren't going to be needed, but probably will be.

He hears footsteps, and risks opening one eye just a sliver to watch as a dim figure moves down the aisle and stops next to Eames, prodding him lightly in the back. The man says something in a guttural grunt, and Arthur realizes it's Russian.

Russian kidnappers using Net Room can only mean that the rumors are true; the Russian Mafia want to get into Extracting.

Arthur grimly revises his team's survival chances downward.

00oo00oo00

Ariadne can't quite get her eyes to focus, and even when a sense of panic rushes through her it feels muted. She blinks, and realizes that she's being carried, roughly, over someone's shoulder because her vision is of the back of moving legs and passing ground. This is so far from her last impressions of falling asleep on the jet that she flinches hard. A hand pats her ass with more force than necessary and the person carrying her chuckles.

More adrenaline surges through her, and Ariadne thrashes, fighting her bonds and throwing the man under her off-balance a bit. He curses, stumbles, and smacks her ass, _hard._ Ariadne squawks. Her mind is foggy, but alarm is helping it clear rapidly, and her first thoughts are for Arthur and Eames. Ariadne tries to figure out where she is but in a minute, she finds herself unslung and tossed against something warm and bony.

The scent, the deep groan; it's Arthur. Ariadne cranes her head to look up, feeling absurdly grateful to have landed on him. He might not feel the same way, but for the moment she focuses on his big Adam's apple and worried eyes. There's tape over his mouth, his hair is mussed, and somehow that's more upsetting than their current situation; Ariadne has the most absurd longing to reach up and smooth it.

She can't, of course, not with her hands tied, so instead, she tips herself to roll off of him as she notes their surroundings. It seems to be a cell of some sort; concrete walls and floor, with a caged bulb overhead. It's hard to tell the time of day, but it feels like night because the air is cool and smells faintly . . . damp. Almost familiar, though Ariadne can't place it.

Eames is on the other side; she sees him faintly beyond Arthur; another body on the ground. Oddly, she's not quite as scared now—probably because she's with the two of them. Ariadne's spent so much time dreaming that this seems like another scenario out of the Pasiv, so she tries to relax and stay close to Arthur.

One of the men above them speaks, and the language sounds Slavic to her as he barks out an order. Someone else bends down and a knife flashes out, cutting the plastic bonds. Ariadne can't move her arms at first, and they flop a bit as circulation tries to flow back into them. Arthur is already sitting up and leaning towards her as he pulls the tape off his mouth and then reaches for hers. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Thirsty," she admits in a croaky voice. "What the hell is going on?"

"Set up. Think it's Net Room working with the Russian Mafia," comes his low, quick reply. He turns to check on Eames, who's rubbing his nose and looking incredibly pissed off.

"Bloody hell. You all right, pet?" he asks Ariadne, who nods. Anything more they want to say is cut off when one of the men speaks.

"Get up." There's a faint accent to the English; clearly it's a second language for the short man staring at them. He holds a large hunting knife with the careless grace of a person comfortable with using it, and Ariadne feels herself tense again.

Knives are bad news. Knives are the weapons of assassins and psychos.

Arthur helps her up and moves her so she's between him and Eames, and she doesn't miss the gesture of that, no. She blinks.

"What the hell is going on?" Arthur demands in that low, flat 'don't-fuck-with-me' voice that generally makes other people listen.

"Mr. Brewster. You, Mr. Eames and Miss Westwood are going to be our guests for a while," the man replies firmly. He has his pale hair in a crewcut, wears slightly tinted horn rim glasses, and even though his jeans and ski vest imply he's harmless, there's an alertness to his stance that belies the impression. "You've got certain skills, and we've got people who want them, so if you'll cooperate, everyone will be happy."

"You're a fucking nutter if you think we're going to settle in for tea after being bloody hijacked," Eames growls pleasantly. "Look mate, if you wanted our skills, we're open to negotiation out on the free market, but grabbing us off the street definitely sours my sunny disposition."

"We don't actually _need _your co-operation, Mr. Eames," the man replies calmly, shifting his gaze. Ariadne notes that the other two men in the room tense up.

"Noted," Arthur breaks in quietly. "But it would make things easier all around. I repeat: what the hell is going on?"

"Dreaming," the blonde man admits, speaking to Arthur but keeping his eyes on Eames. "We've got clients who want the one oh one tutorial on it."

"Oh, and _paying_ for lessons is too damned much?" Eames snipes, which is a mistake. The blonde man makes a jab with his knife—

-At Ariadne. She dodges, and the man steps back, tossing a cold look at Eames. "Keep that smart mouth going, Mr. Eames, and I'll make sure these other two regret it."

Ariadne flashes the man a look of disgust. She shoots out one hand and flips him off; for a second he looks startled, and the two men behind him nearly snicker.

'Yeah, my team and I aren't exactly thrilled by your hospitality, Mr.-?" Arthur blandly states, still cool.

The blonde man shakes his head in disappointment. "Call me Rossiter. Too bad; looks like we're going the hard way."

The two men behind Rossiter step forward, and they've got tasers in hand; big ugly military issue models.


	4. Chapter 4

Eames grits his teeth and undresses as slowly as he can. It's not hard; he's aching from the cold and his head is pounding from the residual of whatever they put in the gin. Along with everything else, it pisses him off that these wankers would ruin good Boodles with drugs.

A grunted order in Russian; not hard to figure out, and Eames turns in his boxers, giving the man a dry stare. "I'm getting there," he snaps, and reaches for the jumpsuit on the wooden table. It's a long shapeless affair of blue-grey denim, chilly to the touch. He climbs into it, vaguely amused that it seems to fit well-enough, although it's short at the ankles, and the snaps that run up the front are hard to close.

"I _do_ get to keep the shoes, right?" Eames asks conversationally, his eyes on the way the man is holding the taser in a death-grip.

Clearly an amateur and a nervous one at that.

The guard doesn't understand until Eames waves to his feet; he nods then, and Eames puts his loafers back on, glad of the residual warmth in them. He sniffs a little because the drying blood in his nose tickles, and then looks at the guard. "After you, sunshine."

It's a pity, leaving a nice set of khakis and a decent Bali Bahn shirt behind like that, along with his wallet, totem and hotel card, Eames sighs. Still, it's also not the first time, and he knows a thing or two about sleight of hand. The guard waves him out, and Eames saunters. It's too cold to do it well, but he suspects it will unnerve the twit behind him if he does, so Eames smiles and ambles out.

He's herded down a white, bare hallway to a room at the far end; there are voices and as Eames steps inside, he sees Ariadne and Arthur, each in a jumpsuit as well, sitting in cold metal chairs against a wall with a small table between them

Ariadne's jumpsuit is three sizes too big, and she glares at Eames, defying him to make a comment. He doesn't, but grins anyway, since it's the only reassurance he can give her for the moment.

"Haf him sit zere nixt to ze ozzer man-" a woman's voice orders, and Eames looks at the speaker. She's a lean crone in a lab coat, with short-cropped grey hair, thick eyebrows and a pair of dark moles clustered on her whiskery chin. Eames blinks, thinking she should have a gingerbread cottage in a forest somewhere.

Obediently he sits on the only other empty metal chair and catches Arthur's gaze; they nod to each other.

The woman is looking inside Ariadne's mouth and making notes on a clipboard. Ariadne's expression indicates that she's considering biting the doctor, and while Eames approves in spirit, he knows it would bring trouble, so he shakes his head at her.

"Forty-vun kilograms," the old bat says. "Note for dosages. Your lest period?"

Dead silence among the four men in the room.

Eames watches as Ariadne flushes at such a personal question; he feels a sympathetic rise of anger at the invasion. "Mine was two weeks ago," he offers loudly.

It's a joy to see Arthur shoot a sidelong glance at him, the very faintest of smirks on his chiseled lips, and even the hard numbing jolt of the taser doesn't take away the feeling of triumph as Eames flinches and slumps in his chair, determined not to pass out or fall off.

He grunts, working to steady his breathing as the bastard with the gun grins and turns to Arthur. "You got anything to say?"

"Sorry. I can't remember my last period," Arthur tells him, and Eames snorts a laugh.

Arthur writhes as the voltage shoots through him, and Ariadne shouts. "Jesus, stop it! About nine days ago!"

"Birs control?" the witch-doctor demands, not even looking at Eames or Arthur. Ariadne shakes her head, fury in her eyes easily visible, and it's enough to make Eames fall a little bit in love with her right then, her fierce, petite self ready to take on two guards and Baba Yaga on their behalf.

But the crone merely picks up a syringe and flicks a finger along the barrel. "You may feel a zlight sting—"

"Bloody HELL!" Eames rasps, still tingling, but unable to get his body to follow directions. Arthur is lunging, but his coordination is even worse, and he falls heavily on the floor, the breath wooshing out of his lungs.

Ariadne is staring at the needle. "What the hell is it?"

"Depo-provera," the doctor snaps. "Hip, plees."

The two guards look more than ready to re-apply their tasers, and Eames is shaking his head, but Ariadne grits her teeth. "Okay."

She starts to undo the snaps of her jumpsuit, and Eames abruptly turns his head, vision suddenly stinging and blurry now, and it's not the taser that's done it.

00oo00oo00

A lot of people think that Arthur Brewster is a cold-blooded, calculating killer, who has three plans for every mission, and weighs his associates by merit rather than emotional ties.

A lot of people would be wrong about the cold-bloodedness and merit-judgment parts, but the rest of it stands scrutiny, and Arthur has never really cared about his reputation in the Dreaming community anyway. Dom was always the lead; the poster boy for sly, successful Extractions while Arthur stayed in the background, gathering data and making sure the whole enterprise worked.

But ever since the success of the Fischer job, Dom's been content to be a stay-at-home father, and Arthur's been left to run on his own, pulling together his own teams. It works; not as well as with Dom, but Arthur doesn't mind, because it's a comfortable living, if one doesn't stress too much about being watched by Interpol and having to bank with the Cayman Islands.

Arthur knows he'll never have the interpersonal skills that Dom does; consequently he sticks with people he knows and trusts. Eames is one, Ariadne another, and over the last year, almost against his will, Arthur has become fond of them. Certainly he feels a strong sense of obligation in looking out for these two, his protectiveness complicated by deeper emotions that occasionally rise up from his calmer depths.

Neither Ariadne nor Eames make things easy, of course—both of them are stubborn and feisty, which usually adds to their charm in almost any other situation. But here—in the clutches of this serious threat, it's not helping one damned bit.

Arthur scowls, and rubs his face, annoyed at the bristles coming in. By his best guess, they've been here nearly two days, and in that time he hasn't seen anyone official but the guards who bring the food and escort him to the toilet. His cell is small—barely the size of a walk-in closet and Arthur knows Eames is in the one left of him, and Ariadne is on the right.

He knows this because there is a small mesh grating in the wall near the floor, and through it, Arthur's been able to see and talk to each of his compatriots. It's not dignified to lie on the floor, but given the situation it doesn't matter; being able to communicate to his people is a hell of a lot more important.

They're holding up, and Arthur's proud of that. For Eames, unexpected incarceration isn't unfamiliar territory, but for an upstanding citizen like Ariadne—and yet, she's okay. Bored and tense, but a lot tougher than Arthur had given her credit for up to this point.

Although Arthur hasn't found any hidden cameras or bugs in his cell, he's been speaking in French to the two of them; an added measure of privacy, he hopes. Eames' accent is straight out of Marseille; a rough growling sort of sound, while Ariadne clearly has Canadian intonations in her speech.

It's funny, the things you notice under stress, Arthur muses.

So far they haven't been mistreated, just ignored, and Arthur wonders if this is part of the torture. Certainly listening to Eames bitch in his longshoreman's French is hard on the ears, although it tends to make Ariadne laugh, and the pervasive cold makes it damned uncomfortable to stay stretched out on the stone floor.

"I think I'm falling in love with your ear, darling," Eames tells him sardonically, "given that it's all I can see of you."

"Yeah, well I'm not going to do a Van Gogh and give it to you," Arthur mutters, turning his head to glare through the grating. "How many people are here anyway?"

"Four at least," Ariadne chimes in from the other side, and Arthur shifts to look at her. She's curled on her side towards the grate and he sees most of her face. "That doctor, Rossiter, and the two guards. Where they the same ones who brought us in from the jet?"

"They were," Eames agrees. "Russians, and punks at that, working their way up, I should think."

"So where are the vors?" Arthur muses. "You'd think they'd be tapping us already."

"I'm not in any rush," Ariadne mutters, "Believe me."

"None of us are," Eames assures her from the far side of Arthur. "I think the _bigger _question is why grab us at all? If they couldn't afford our prices, there _are _other teams in the business. Not nearly as good as we are, darlings, but the basics of Pasiv modulated subconscious manipulation are pretty damned much the same."

Arthur had been pondering the same point for hours now, and gave a grunt. "Unless there's more _to_ it. Some . . . variation."

"I don't like the sound of that," Ariadne admits, and her voice is slightly shaky. Arthur wants to be able to comfort her somehow, but the grating is too fine to permit more than a fingertip through it.

"Nor do I," Eames adds. "This is not the sort of bedtime story I want to _hear,_ Arthur."

"Sorry; I believe in being pragmatic and having a chance at living," Arthur shoots back impatiently. "They'll get around to us at _some _point and we need to be ready for that."

"So do we teach them what we know or what?" Ariadne demands quietly, "Because I'm still the newbie here, and what _I_ know would take maybe half an hour, tops."

"We say nothing until we're asked, and we stand united," Arthur tells them. "Got that?"

The other two murmur agreement.

It's only later in the quiet of the night that Eames calls Arthur closer to the grating; so close his warm breath tickles against his ear. "Darling, you and I know the truth. We're not getting out of this alive."

"We are if we play it smart," Arthur whispers, his mouth practically touching the grate as he shifts. "They'll need you, since you're the best forger out there, and they'll need Ari since she's in the top three architects now that Cobb's out. Depending on what the vors want and how fast they want it, you've got time."


	5. Chapter 5

"Arthur," Eames warns, a sinking feeling in his gut, hating the fact that the man is deliberately being blunt. "I might play a heartless bastard to the majority of our underworld associates, but give me a little credit for *some* loyalty. Neither Ari nor I are doing a damned thing without you. For one thing the terrible pixie would stomp my stones if I tried, and for another, we run as a _team_."

He hears; feels the soft chuff of Arthur's soundless chuckle through the grating, and the sense of relief is almost palpable. "Keep that up for Ariadne; she's going to need it, but we both know running point is the least specialized job."

"Then we'll just have to show these borscht-eaters otherwise," Eames grumbles. "You're the one who'll get us out of here, darling. I'm holding you _to_ that."

"You're an optimist, Eames."

"I'm a gambler," he corrects, "and even with long odds like this, I still think we have the edge."

By the next day Rossiter has them convened in a round, stone room that looks like an ancient operating theater, and the chill here is enough to almost see their breath. Eames notes that there is one more guard, a huge hulk of a man with teeth like a broken picket fence, and so many tattoos on his neck and hands that he looks like a tagger's wet dream.

"Today we're going to Dream," Rossiter announces without preamble. "You—" he points at Ariadne, "on that bed."

There are four ancient hospital beds here, with bare striped mattresses and metal frames, all circled around a table with a Pasiv on it. Ariadne looks mulish, but at a nod from Arthur, she sits on one of the mattresses. The hulking guard reaches for her wrist, which is tiny in his huge paw. He turns it to reveal the delicate tendons on the other side. "Ja teb'a l'ubl'u," he tells her conversationally, and Eames sees Rossiter flinch a little.

He files the phrase away for the moment and watches as Ariadne is hooked up, her eyes closing quickly. Eames waits until he's directed to one of the other beds, and stretches out, coiled and ready. Dreaming will be a bit of a relief from the boredom, at least, and if Ariadne is dreaming, the landscape's bound to be different.

Eames looks over at the other beds; Rossiter is on one, and Arthur on the other. Fence Mouth is jamming the needle into Arthur's wrist while Rossiter is hooking himself up. When the brute turns to him, Eames holds out a wrist, deliberately making a fist.

The needle goes in and-

_Sand and slow, sweet waves. Eames can't help but break into a grin at the sight of a long stretch of beach that's clearly been on Ariadne's mind. He looks around and sees people on lounge chairs under thatch umbrellas, people strolling along the tide line. Kids in bathing suits, men in surfing shorts, women in bikinis—_

_Oh Eames appreciates *that* touch. He'll have to tell Ariadne thank you, later._

_He turns and sees, clustered at a vendor's cart, Arthur, Ariadne and Rossiter._

_And yes, Arthur is in a three-piece suit, although Ariadne is in a cute little paisley tee and bottoms, with sandals as well. Rossiter is in his sweats._

_Eames concentrates, remembering a particularly lush model he'd once watched from a hotel window . . . and a second later, he's sashaying along, sunglasses on his pert nose, a small cooler in one hand. He comes close to the cart and makes a show of choosing a spot, listening to the conversation._

"_Where the hell are we?" Rossiter is demanding, glaring around the beach. _

"_Cancun, or as close as I can make it," Ariadne tells him. "I need to do more research though."_

"_Shit," Rossiter mutters, and Eames can hear he's impressed despite himself. "You're pretty good. Waves, light, details—looks right to me."_

_Eames bends over on the sand to set down the cooler and looks over at Arthur, winking deliberately; it's amusing to see the point man nod ever so slightly even as he's blushing. Ariadne is reaching into the vendor's cart for an ice cream._

"_So now what?" she asks, fishing out a paper-covered cone and peeling it. "I mean, here we are; what do you want?"_

"_Let's take a little walk—wait, where's the other one?" Rossiter demands, squinting around. "He's here, right?"_

_Arthur shrugs. "Probably."_

"_No, no, he's here somewhere," Rossiter snaps angrily. "I'm not going to play hide-and-seek. Eames!"_

_Eames straightens up; all around, every sub on the beach is also looking alertly towards Rossiter, and the intensely creepy effect of that makes the man glance around nervously._

"_Calm down," Arthur orders firmly, "Unless you want to see us all ripped apart."_

_Eames sashays over and brushes up against Arthur; Ariadne is fighting a grin since she's figured it out, but Rossiter looks confused. "Where the hell IS he?"_

"_Eames," Arthur warns, because the subs are starting to scowl. Eames coos, nuzzling Arthur's ear, then steps away and shifts back to his natural form._

_Rossiter blinks. "You—you were a woman."_

"_It happens sometimes," Eames acknowledges with a wry smirk. "Usually when I'm feeling pretty."_

_Rossiter's eyes narrow, and he gives a reluctant smile. "I heard you were impressive; now I can see why. How long does it take you to do what you do?"_

"_Years," Eames replies easily, reaching for Ariadne's cone. She reluctantly lets him have a nibble, while Arthur glances around, his gaze sharp on the agitated subs that are shooting hostile glares. Several of them are aggressively moving towards them._

"_Ariadne, which way?" Arthur asks, and she turns to look out to sea, letting his gaze follow hers as ominously, the water begins to recede all up and down the beach, pulling away quickly._

"_Under," she murmurs quietly._

_00oo00oo00_

Ariadne wakes first with a shuddering gasp, drawing in air sharply, like she'll never be able to get enough. The bedsprings creak, and she looks up into the staring eyes of the tattooed hulk. He pats her hair, and she jerks away.

The others are waking too, breathing hard. She sees Arthur roll to a sitting position, tugging his line out without even looking at it, and Eames opening his mouth for a breath.

Ariadne's sorry she didn't get to warn them in advance about what she was going to do, but they've worked together long enough that there are no hard feelings. When the only way to get out of a dream is death, you take whatever option you've got.

Rossiter is furious. He shoots off the bed, untangling his lead and glaring at her with frustration. "That will _cost_ you, Miss Westwood. I am _nobody_ you want to fuck with, girl, so we are not having any more shit like that! Yuri, take her back. No food, two days."

Ariadne says nothing as both Arthur and Eames protest, the pair of them speaking over and around each other, but Rossiter reaches for the taser and waves it menacingly. To their credit, neither man stops talking, but Rossiter flicks the device on and roars, "Shut UP."

"Guys," Ariadne tells them, "Stop."

"Don't do this to her," Arthur insists. "She's not responsible for this team; _I_ am."

"Good. Keep your two bitches in line," Rossiter growls, and Ariadne tries not to let a nervous laugh bubble up, because even though she's scared, it's pretty clear that Rossiter is being petty in his anger.

"Better his bitch than yours," Eames growls, and shoots a quelling look at one of the guards when the man steps closer. "Don't."

The man stops.

"You're going to teach me what you know," Rossiter tells them flatly, "And you can do it in good health, or you can do it leaking blood. Your choice."

"Look, you're asking for expertise in three different aspects of Dreaming," Arthur points out, and Ariadne brings her knees to her chest, listening, because if there's one thing Arthur is good at, it's reasoning with people.

Dom might have brought her into Dreaming, but Arthur is the one who stays her anchor.

He's talking now in that deep rumble of his. "Each one of us has taken years to get good at what we do; it's not like we can pass that on overnight."

"Oh, we've got time," Rossiter says in a tone that makes Ariadne shake inside. It's confirmation that they're not getting out of this anytime soon, and although she's suspected it, hearing the man's tone cuts deep. She ducks her head to keep anyone from seeing her shiver.

Things get worse after that. The food deprivation is annoying but not terrible; it's the damned cold that bothers Ariadne. She knows it's a matter of insulation and body fat and thermodynamics, but knowing the facts, and dealing with them are two different things.

Worse still is having to lie on the floor just to talk. The chill rises up through the stones, but the odd smell that she's been puzzling about is clear now.

They're near a lake. What she smells is that familiar musky mildew scent of fresh lake water, the memory cue to summers at the cabin, running barefoot along the paths and picking blueberries back on Lac la Ronge. She shares the insight with Arthur, who nods and files it away before returning to his work in the grate.

He's determined to take it out, just as Eames is determined to do the same with the _other _grate. Ariadne watches him pick at the cinderblock along the edge, using one of the snaps ripped off of his cuff. The metal digs into the wet stone pretty easily, and two days later, he's able to kick the grate with the heel of his shoe, popping it out, and into her cell with a silvery little clattering sound.

Ariadne scoops it up, tucks the square of stiff mesh into her jumpsuit to hide it, and then she reaches through, and the sweet, shocking _warmth_ of Arthur's hand wrapping around hers sends a jolt through Ariadne's entire system, pinging in hard little spasms down her spine. She_ knows_ if she had a tail it would be wagging madly.

She squeezes his fingers, and through the hole she hears Arthur laugh, softly. "You're okay?" he asks in French.

"I'm good," Ariadne reassures him, her voice cracking. "Now."

"You got through?" Eames calls.

"Yeah, for what it's worth," Arthur answers, and now his other hand is coming to wrap around hers. The heat of those strong, long fingers is bliss for Ariadne; she scoots as close to the wall as she can to savor it.

"Don't let go," she whispers.


	6. Chapter 6

Eames stares at the floor, forcing himself to think of pleasant things. It's difficult because he's just finished vomiting, and the sour taste in his mouth makes it difficult to concentrate. He can hear Arthur retching quietly in the next room, spitting lightly when he's done.

So methodical, so very damned . . . Arthur.

Eames hopes Ariadne is all right; she'd thrown up once, on the walk back to the cells, but hasn't heaved again since he and Arthur have. He hopes it's because the dose of whatever was in the Seds was smaller for her. Dizzily Eames pushes aside the plastic toilet bucket and lies down on the floor, ready to roll to his side if his stomach demands it. The cold stone feels surprisingly good, and he speaks hoarsely through the hole in the wall. "Doing all right?"

"Great," Arthur mutters back. Eames can see him on all fours, pale face over his own bucket. "You?"

"Oh I'm dandy, love—it's like a good university weekend, without any of the alcohol, interesting tobaccos or naked bodies. What the hell *was* that?"

"Got me," Arthur groans. "I have my suspicions about the quality control of their somniacin, though."

Eames laughs, and it makes his stomach hurt anew; groaning, he rubs his belly. "Gives one a new appreciation for our man in Mombasa, eh?"

"Yes," Arthur manages with a gurgle. "Ariadne?"

Eames listens, and a distant whimper chills him; he scoots closer to the wall, pressing his face to the hole and trying to see beyond Arthur to the other side. Arthur is crawling to the wall himself, blocking his view.

"Ari?" Eames demands roughly. She's so small, damn it, no padding on her anywhere—

"I have puke in my_ hair_," she wails softly. "God, I want a bath SO bad right now!"

Relief floods through Eames' chest and he tries not to laugh, because her complaint is funny and sad and girly all the same time.

"Me too," Arthur grunts. "Hell, I'd settle for a hose and a towel at this point."

That DOES make Eames laugh weakly, and he's cheered when he hears Ariadne snort. Then a few moments later he hears her shuffle a few steps and pound on the door.

"Hey! Rossiter!" Ariadne yells. "I NEED a bath!"

She yells it several times, and Eames closes his eyes, hoping like hell that she doesn't get in trouble for it. Footsteps come up the hall; he tenses, getting to his feet quickly, which is a mistake. Eames reels a bit leaning drunkenly on the wall for support.

"Arthur," he calls warningly, "company."

He hears the other man grunt and get to his feet as well. "Not good," comes the rumble, "shit," followed by another long bout of retching.

Eames rests his forehead against the wall, feeling fucking helpless. It's not the first time in the last few days, and he hates the rise of furious bile in his throat; the twist of frustration in his gut.

The sound of feet pass by his door and head beyond Arthur's to Ariadne's.

"If you so much as _touch_ her Rossiter, I'll—" Eames bellows, but Rossiter's bored voice cuts him off.

"Shut up. You're all coming out."

Eames slowly makes his way to the cell door, listening as other doors are opening and closing.

Eames is stunned, and that's not an easy turn of events, especially now. But as Rossiter herds them into a tiled room he can't find a thing to say. It's long and narrow, but the scent of harsh soap is in the chilly air, and Eames notes that the brick floors are damp.

Then he looks up and sees the showerheads projecting from one of the walls, and his stomach flip-flops again, but not because he feels sick, exactly.

Rossiter minces no words. "The hot water runs for ten minutes, one towel each, soap's in the middle dish and if it's not there when I unlock the door you can all march back naked."

Ariadne is the first to speak; she does so flatly, as if she's not even surprised. "Fine. Go away."

"If you vomit in here, wash it down the drain," Rossiter growls and steps out, slamming the wooden door behind him. "Ten minutes," he repeats. The lock on the other side slides shut, and Eames looks uneasily from the showerheads to his teammates.

This is hell.

He hasn't been any physically closer to either Arthur or Ariadne than the beds in the Dreaming chamber, and now they're all going to be naked.

Together.

All right then. A sense of reckless bravado surges through him.

If it's hell, Eames decides, it's a wonderfully perverted one, and he can't stand his own damned stench any longer, so he begins to undo the snaps of his jumpsuit.

"Let's go, darlings; dunno about you two, but I'm tired of reeking like a fucking dog's breakfast."

Arthur assesses, because trying to _process _while keeping one's stomach from turning itself inside out is impossible. This, he decides, is a very interesting situation.

A VERY interesting situation.

Getting naked in front of Eames will be a little awkward, but not completely a problem. Arthur has participated in sports and gyms and the military most of his life, so public showers in such circumstances is the norm, more often than not.

Fact of life; men shower adjacent to each other semi-regularly, and while Eames will probably look, he won't touch.

At least, Arthur's _pretty_ sure he won't.

No, the issue is Ariadne, and the plusses and minuses of her presence flicker through his mind at the speed of light.

_Ariadne naked, good._

_Ariadne naked in front of Eames, bad._

_Ariadne seeing HIM naked, worrisome._

_Ariadne seeing Eames naked—even MORE worrisome._

Before Arthur can begin to make a move or protest, he sees Ariadne turn her back to him, yank at the front of her jumpsuit, and step out of it, nude, like a pale little Venus sliding off a clamshell.

Ooooh that ass.

Arthur blinks, turns, feels queasy and horny and flushed all at the same time. Eames is whistling now, and climbing out of his own jumpsuit as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Um," Arthur begins, and stalls out. Eames strides to the nearest shower and spins the right knob, grunting a little as the spray hits him.

"Cold," he grits his teeth, but Arthur is caught up in the sight of all the swirled ink all over the man's arms and shoulders. The fact that Eames has tattoos shouldn't be a surprise, but the sight of them is still a bit of a shock.

That and all the muscles Eames has been hiding.

"Arthur, come on," Ariadne calls over her shoulder, and he sways a bit, swallowing as she reaches for the knobs of her shower.

Arthur strips down.

It _is _a relief to get out of the grungy jumpsuit, and by now the air is getting steamy—in more ways than one, actually. Trying not to look right or left, Arthur gingerly steps to the middle shower.

He's always in the middle, Arthur notes as he grabs for the hot water knob, fumbling with it. One arm length away, Ariadne is ducking under the water, and _Jesus!_

Arthur _tries_ not to look; he does make the effort, but the pretty sight of her, face up, eyes closed as the water cascades along her body is enough to make throbs roll down his stomach in urgent little pangs; makes his cock twitch. Gritting his teeth, he turns his back to her and concentrates on the water.

Eames is whistling, the bastard—it sounds like the Colonel Bogey March from _Bridge on the River Kwai _and Arthur glares at him, which is a mistake, given how Eames smiles back, holding out a hand.

"Soap, darling—I believe you've got the only bar?"

Only Eames could make that would incredibly smutty. A naked, wet, decorated Englishman with a bizarre sense of high cockalorum.

Arthur wishes he hadn't thought of the word 'cock' and fumbles for the metal dish. The soap is a square brick.

"Hurry up and pass it down this way before the water goes cold!" Ariadne orders.

"Arthur's the one with it, love," Eames points out.

He fumbles, not sure which way to turn, and in one instant, all Arthur really wants is his totem, because this has to be a Dream. A fuck-up, brought on by bad drugs Dream, with overtones of serious horniness on his part, because both Ariadne and Eames are looking very good to him right now.

Arthur brings the soap up to his mouth and bites it; one bitter taste is enough.

"Don't eat it all," Eames chides understandingly.

00oo00

Ariadne is damned glad for the water and the steam, and even though she'd really like her own shampoo and soft soap, the sheer bliss of washing is almost as great as the stomach flutters she's got from seeing her men.

That's how she's come to think of them now: her men.

And at this point, it's prêt-ty obvious they're men, oh yeah. Ariadne doesn't stare, exactly, but the luscious—that's really the only word for it, luscious- sight of naked Arthur and naked Eames is burning into her retinas.

Long, lean and sinewy, Arthur has only muscles, no fat anywhere, but a hell of a nice frame, shoulders to narrow hips. Eames is broader, and the exotic curls and swirls of black dye across his shoulders give him a dangerous look to balance out that cupid mouth of his.

And they're hung. Not the most elegant way of putting it, but Ariadne knows what she's peeking at.

She realizes that on top of being cold, scared and angry, she's horny as hell, too, and that insight damned near makes Ariadne laugh. Instead, she shakes her head and rakes the fingers of one hand through her wet hair, while holding out the other to Arthur, her face turned away. "Soap, soap!"

The heavy weight of it in her hand helps, and Ariadne steps back from the shower, furiously rubbing the bar everywhere: hair, shoulders, breasts, belly, hips. She closes her eyes and blindly holds out the bar again. "Thanks—here . . ."

Fumbling fingers against hers, and Ariadne keeps her eyes closed, because the image of a naked Arthur bending down in front of her is _not _something she can handle right now.

He gives a grunt and she feels him take it; Ariadne turns to start rinsing, keeping her concentration on getting her hair as clean as the circumstances permit. Further down the wall, Eames is whistling, as if this is something the three of them do every day, and again, Ariadne fights rising giggles. She realizes she doesn't feel sick anymore, either.

"Not my usual brand of surfactant," Eames drawls. "Anyone fancy a duet?"

"Shut up, Mr. Eames," Arthur rumbles, and Ariadne shoots a sidelong glance, unable to help herself. God, both of them stark naked—she might never get another chance to look.

After a minute more, the water temperature shifts to cold, and Ariadne squeals, reaching to twist the knob off. Next to her, Arthur mutters a curse and does the same; Eames makes a slight grunting sound and stays under the water.

She steps away, rubbing water off her face, looking around. A damp wooden bench stands next to the opposite wall, and on it are folded towels. Grabbing one, Ariadne wraps it around herself, the scratchy surface prickly as hell against her sensitive skin.

"Right, well that was fun," Eames sighs. Ariadne turns away, but she can feel him approaching, reaching for one of the towels on the bench. "Here, Arthur . . . hmm. Forgive me for noticing, but I thought cold water was supposed to make it shrink?"

"Shut UP, Eames," Arthur snarls, and Ariadne can't hold back any longer. She giggles, the sound echoing off the tiled walls, and a second later, Eames' chuckle joins hers.

This might be a Dream, she realizes, and if it is, it's a pretty good one right now.


	7. Chapter 7

It goes on, and Eames has trouble keeping track of time as the days begin to blur into each other. They're much the same: breakfast of some oatmeal or similar hot cereal along with water and anemic fruit, usually a mottled banana. Boredom for a few hours, off-set by talking through the hole in the wall, doing calisthenics or looking through the photos provided by Rossiter for forging.

The man doesn't understand that forging is more than just *looking* like a person; that a good forgery involves knowing the nuances and tics and characteristics of the subject. At this point, Eames could forge Rossiter, but is holding back on that for the right moment.

Somewhere around mid-day, he and the others are herded out to the stone theater to Dream. Eames and Arthur have theorized that they're in some old hospital; possibly something from Stalin days, left-over and forgotten. Certainly nothing they've seen outside of the Pasiv dates from the last few decades.

They Dream.

Usually Rossiter is the Dreamer, but sometimes it's Ariadne.

They experience hallucinations, side-effects, distorted realities and twisted Dreams.

Rossiter won't admit that the whole *point* of kidnapping, of having this team is to test different Seds, but Eames knows now that it is, because the witch doctor always checks them afterwards.

That pisses him off royally, to realize they're nothing more than guinea pigs, and all the talk of learning Building and Forging runs secondary to the trials. Arthur figured it out after the first two Dreams, but at the moment there's nothing they can do to fight it.

Yet.

They get a quick physical from the doctor each time and go back to their cells to recover, which means going through puking at times, or sleeping, or having the DTs or simply being stoned for a while.

Eames doesn't mind being stoned too much actually. Arthur is hilarious when he's high, and Ariadne does an incredible imitation of Brian Johnson, snarling out an a cappella version of _Back In Black_ and making the lyrics bounce off the walls.

Stoned is better than buzzed. When they're wired on some amphetamine additive, Eames can hardly keep still, slamming himself off the walls and jumping on his cot until it or he collapses. Arthur strips naked and does push-ups and sit-ups, smoothly pushing his way past a thousand in an hour, if he bothered keeping count, sweat rolling off his hard, lean body.

Eames likes to watch that, but can't, because his own twitchiness makes it too difficult to lie still on the floor for long. He suspects Ariadne watches from the hole on the other wall, but he can't always see her.

If they manage to stay awake for dinner, it's usually some glop of a stew, fishy some days, burnt beef on others, nothing that requires utensils. They get paper bowls and plates; bottled water, nothing that can be used as a weapon.

It's boring and terrifying all at the same time, and a slow, ancient weakness is rising up inside Eames; a need he generally keeps in check but can't quite master at the moment, not the way they're being kept here, at arm's length.

Monophobia. Stupid name for a stupid condition that started back with all the hellish crap when he was a kid. The label makes him sneer, but there are times that the drugs push back all those reasonable assurances in his head, and Eames curls up as close to the hole in the wall as he can, just to see Arthur.

Just to know he's not . . . alone.

Then comes the day when they get the Red sed.

They go in; Rossiter's jumpy, but _his _sed capsule is clear as usual, so Eames realizes he's nervous about what the rest of them are getting, which makes Eames a bit twitchy himself. He looks at Arthur, who nods; he's spotted the new color as well.

Ariadne resentfully lies down and holds out her arm, and Eames can see how scarred her wrist is getting. They've been Dreaming nearly every day now, and he knows pretty soon they'll be past the point of being able to reach REM sleep on their own if they don't stop.

"What's in the sed?" Arthur asks.

Rossiter shrugs. "Sleep and find out, Point Man."

Ariadne's out already; she'll be designing. Arthur goes next, so Eames settles back, wondering what the two of them will come up with—it's been interesting so far.

_Under, and he feels the rush through his veins, hot and throbbing and so very, very RED; whatever is in the sed is hitting like a velvet cricket bat. Eames looks around, bracing himself for anything. _

_The room is huge and dark, filled with bouncing, twirling bodies, and Eames only has a second to realize it's a dance floor. The pillars are curvy, the flashing lights pulse in time to the music, and the projections are all moving to the beat of some vaguely familiar disco tune. Eames begins to bounce along, feeling himself grin as warm lovely heat floods through him—whatever this shit in the sed is, it's leaving a lovely burn all the way from his temples to his groin, and he's starting to feel randy._

_00oo00oo00_

_Arthur doesn't want to think about the music—this particular song is one of the banes of his middle school years—but the crush of people along the dance floor are blocking some of the sound. Light is glittering everywhere, and he likes that instead of being the usual sparkles, Ariadne has shaped them into hearts that are now sliding over arms and legs and breasts . . . _

_He feels warm, and begins to hunt for his team, weaving in and out of groups, like a sleek human version of a ferret, looking up periodically, and finding himself periodically caught in the relentless rhythm of the music._

_Rossiter is on the edges of the crowd, at a table, looking around; Arthur knows the man hasn't seen him yet, and avoiding him seems prudent. He feels a hand land on his shoulder and turns to see Eames standing there. Before Arthur can say anything, Eames yanks him into a bearhug. "Darling!"_

_Eames is hot and sweaty and Arthur should be annoyed as *fuck* at being manhandled, particularly in the middle of a crowd of projections, but somehow the fuse of his anger doesn't quite . . . ignite. For one thing, Eames is so damned thrilled to see him, and for another, being hugged feels good too._

_Arthur begins to let go; Eames doesn't. _

"_We're being watched. Let me go," Arthur orders tersely, and he senses the reluctance in the other man's arms. Arthur feels bad for him, and instead of backing up, he merely stares Eames in the eye. "Where's Ari?"_

_Eames blinks, manages a smile. "Back over by the bar, in a red dress. Nice little bit of a thing." _

_They're in each other's personal space, but this is a Dream, so Arthur goes with it and doesn't worry about Eames' breath in his face. "You feel . . . weird?"_

_He watches Eames look around at the gyrating projections and then back at him, and in the sparkling light Arthur can see sweat along his hairline and a wolfish gleam in his eyes._

"_Not precisely weird," Eames rumbles, and pulls Arthur out of the way as a shrieking couple of projections come spinning by. "Look, let's get over to our girl and see what's what."_

_Arthur nods and brushes past Eames; the Englishman is radiating heat and hormones in a heady pheromone bouquet. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to steady himself and pushes gently through the crowd. None of the projections look frightening, in fact, most look pre-occupied with each other, and the music is becoming slower and sultrier._

_He doesn't want to think about what the sed is, but it seems clear enough now, and Arthur searches for Ariadne, all too aware of the changing Dreamscape and what is says about her dosage._

_She's standing at the end of a curved bar made of polished marble, and Eames is right: the satiny slip of a ruby dress is tiny and perfect on Ariadne. Arthur feels the urge to grab her up and . . . hug her._

_Hug her, yes—the idea has a HELL of a lot of appeal right now, and part of Arthur's mind knows it's because of the sed and the other part knows damned well is has nothing to do with the sed, oh no the urges were there long BEFORE the sed—_

"_Like my club?" Ariadne laughs up at them both. She's bright-eyed and pert, and slightly flirtatious. Arthur looks at her and remembers he's seen her naked; the realization makes him flush all over._

"_Very nice, moppet," Eames teases. "Could use a few more uninhibited types, but I'm not complaining. You feel all right?"_

"_Oh I'm feeling pretty good," Ariadne admits, moving to huddle closer to them both. The press of the crowd makes that easy, and Arthur feels the heat shimmering off of her. Both she and Eames are practically combustible right now, and Arthur aches, wanting to touch them both._

_Then Eames looks at him, and Ariadne looks at him, and the atmosphere crackles with energy so erotic that Arthur has to fight not to moan._

"_Hey!" Rossiter is pushing towards them now, and without thinking, without discussion they join hands. Arthur isn't sure how he feels about the way Eames' warm fingers weave with his, but Ariadne's fingers feel small and strong and wriggly._

_Rossiter is agitated, and by now some of the projections are looking the same way, but the room is starting to shift, and Arthur lets Ariadne tug him along, the three of them riding a bizarre little section of glittering floor tile that's moving faster and faster under their feet._

"_Disco surfing, are we?" Eames shouts, keeping his balance. Arthur smirks at that, enjoying the sight of Rossiter's frustration as he falls further and further behind._

They're back in their cells.

00oo00oo00

The wrong cells, but Ariadne isn't in the mood to argue. Actually, the mood she's in would best be defined as 'aroused as hell' to 'desperately horny' and to compound the frustration she's now in the middle cell—Arthur's usual spot.

"God, what the hell was IN that sed?" she mutters, undoing the top few snaps of her suit and wiggling at little as she lies on the floor. Eames is an arm's length to her right through the wall, and Arthur an arm's length to her left through the wall, but what Ariadne really wants is to have them next to her.

Or under her.

Or ON her at this point.

"Felt like a nice dose of Viagra with a cherry on top," Eames offers. "Given how I'm still sporting."

"Jesus, TMI," Arthur calls from the other side.

"Oh and you're not?" Ariadne hears the chide in the Englishman's voice. "I happen to know you haven't tossed off since we've _been_ here, so you've got to be more than randy, pet. Nobody can have as much testosterone as you and not suffer the consequences, Arthur."

"Did anybody ever tell you that you need to be punched in the mouth, Eames? Because if not, let me be the first," Arthur growls.

Ariadne smothers her giggles into her palms for a moment and then asks, "And you _have_, Eames?"

"Of course I have," he retorts. "I'm _normal_ in the grand scheme of hormones."

"What about me?"

"Ah well, girls are different," Eames murmured in a tone she likes, all warm and sexy. "It's not always obvious when you're rubbing the kitten's nose now is it?"

"Like . . . now?"

She can't believe she's doing it, but Ariadne's worked her arm out of her sleeve and into her jumpsuit, down the length of her body.

It feels good bordering on wonderful as she strokes her stomach and slips her fingers further down.

Both men are silent, and when Ariadne closes her eyes, she realizes that's not quite true. She hears Arthur breathing loudly.

"Sorry," Ariadne murmurs, lightly touching herself. It's a little cramped in the suit, but she's not about to risk undoing it and having Rossiter catch her.

"Don't be, angel," Eames groans, and the sound of his voice, husky and uneven tells Ariadne that she's not alone in her sensual pursuit. "Oh God, I'm not!"

So she rubs, hard, caught up not only in the sweet aching rise of her own pleasure as it grows over the minutes, but also in the clear and audible evidence that she's not alone. Ariadne can hear Eames of course, and on the other side, Arthur's breathing is louder, more ragged and uneven. She licks her lips, and that brings an almost pained moan from him.

Faster; Ariadne is feeling desperate now, swept up in an energy driven by everything welling in her—desire, fear, fury, sweet, sweet lust for those two bodies so close and yet so unavailable to her. The long slow wail rises in her throat, and she arches her hips up, rocking now, riding the crest of her own orgasm as it shudders through her. Dimly she hears Eames grunt, hears the rhythmic scrape of his jumpsuit against the floor and more telling than that, the deep, guttural growl that pours through the other opening in the wall where Arthur is.

She opens her eyes to see him, one arm braced against the wall, his lean face contorted in pleasure, and before he's done coming, Ariadne slides over, her mouth devouring his as the cold cinderblocks frame their tongue-tangled kiss.

A moment later, Ariadne rolls over and moves to the little window where Eames is looking at her in sweet adoration. She kisses him too and they laugh in each other's mouths before breaking apart.

The three of them say nothing, and sleep well, dreaming deeply and naturally.


	8. Chapter 8

Eames wakes first, and although his head is muzzy and his mouth feels like it's been used by a dragon for a bedpan, he definitely remembers the night before, oohhhhh yes.

Ariadne in all her solitary beauty, chuffing those soft, sweet little cries of pleasure . . . the very memory is enough to make his morning wood throb, and without a shred of guilt, Eames gives in to temptation all over again, taking himself in hand and feeling ever so much better in a matter of minutes.

He wipes his fingers clean along his jumpsuit at the back of his calf and scoots to the hole in the wall, peeking through to check on the others, curious and amused at what the day will bring.

Eames decides that Red sed is definitely a winner, although he'll be damned if he tells Rossiter that.

Ariadne is not on the floor; at some point in the night she's moved to the cot and is curled up, back to him, face to the wall. Eames is fairly sure she's asleep; the soft rhythmic rise of her ribs confirm that. He looks across to the other hole and checks on Arthur.

Arthur IS on the floor, on his back, and awake, so Eames calls over to him cautiously. "You all right then?"

Arthur grunts; the sound vaguely affirmative. There's a long pause and then Eames snorts. "Yes, I'm very well, thanks for asking."

Still no movement from Arthur, no acknowledgement, so Eames continues, keeping his voice low, but pitched to carry. "You _do _know that any and everything that happened yesterday was brought on by drugs, right? Delightful as it all was."

Arthur finally turns his head, and his expression is as glacial as Eames has ever seen. "Nothing. Happened."

He should have expected this. Eames sighs, because he's always known that Arthur-dear, compulsive, retentive, uptight Arthur-is just the sort of team leader to take total responsibility for things above and beyond his capacity. Cobb at least had some idea of where to draw the line; Arthur on the other hand, prefers to keep everyone inside the circle of his own accountability, even if events incurred are not his fault.

"Of course," Eames agrees with only a touch of sarcasm. "The three of us _didn't_ get randy as hell and end up in a two Jacks and a Jill party last night, oh not at all."

"Shut up," Arthur snaps, and for a moment, Eames does, the silence thick and uncomfortable.

Then he sighs, and manages a little shrug. "Fine. You can deny it all you want, but in the immortal words of your beloved Edith, ' Non, je ne regrette rien,' Darling. You and the terrible pixie gave me the most wonderful night I've had so far in this God-forsaken hellhole, and for that at least, I'm grateful. Subject dropped, all right?"

He thinks it's a damned shame that Arthur will sweep it all under the rug, but truly, it's no surprise. Eames keeps watching Arthur, noting the faint blush on the other man's profile, and the sight of that little tell, that indication that Arthur remembers the night in question gives him hope.

"Mind you, it's really all up to Ari, you know. She was the one to set the balls rolling, so to speak," he adds.

"Eames . . ." Arthur begins, "She was stoned out of her mind. I'm not holding her accountable for . . . any of it."

The nobility of that is totally Arthur, but Eames isn't giving up so easily. "Forgive me darling, but weren't _all_ of us tripping down the Red sed carpet together?"

"Maybe the concept of being a gentleman is foreign to you, but it involves not embarrassing women for indiscretions they may choose not to remember," Arthur mutters back.

Eames is torn between being stung and being amused. "Fair enough, although I warn you, I'm going to remember that kiss of hers for a good long time to come."

00oo00oo00

Arthur lies on the stone floor, lost in a well of conflicting emotions that are being held at bay by sheer willpower. He's used to dealing with his feelings this way; almost a requirement for being a Point Man in fact, but generally those emotions aren't personal, per se.

This- this is very personal. He can't believe he actually masturbated in front of Eames and Ariadne. Well, technically not in front of them, and not alone, given the rather stunning visuals supplied by the woman writhing in the next cell—HIS cell in fact—but that's all beside the point. What lies searing in his throbbing headache is that he gave into baser responses to an unexpected *highly stimulating scenario that the woman he loves may or may not choose to acknowledge.

_Shit_, Arthur thinks to himself, realizing he's just mentally admitted to himself that he loves Ariadne. He concentrates for a moment, to see if it's just a residual effect of the Red sed, but he feels no unusual sensations other than a killer headache.

And his body is certainly a lot less . . . stiff, his mind also points out with a snicker.

"Eames, don't embarrass her. She's got the right to get past last night-_none_ of us were ourselves," Arthur adds. "I'm not going to let you make anything out of this, got it?"

Across the cell, Arthur can see Eames pout a tiny bit, and it's ridiculous that a mouth that attractive should be sitting in the middle of a dark beard.

"Fine," Eames agrees. "Now if you don't mind, I'm getting off the sodding floor because it's gotten bloody freezing, if you hadn't noticed."

Arthur's noticed. They've been in Rossiter's hands now for nearly two months by his estimation, and that means winter is just gearing up. Put more simply, if they're in Russia, as he suspects, then they're fucked at the very least until spring. The cells aren't heated, but there are extra blankets on the cots, and Arthur has seen his breath more than once in the mornings.

He wonders if anyone is trying to find them, or if they've been written off as dead. Dom would keep looking, Arthur's sure, but he'd be limited by his responsibilities to the kids. Saito might send someone to search, but that's not a certainty. At the moment, the most likely scenario is that their usefulness will come to an end, and Rossiter will simply have them killed—possibly while they're all Dreaming. Bleak possibility, but true, and Arthur doesn't sugarcoat it in his thoughts.

However, he's not giving up yet, and all three of them have been keeping their eyes open and pooling information in hopes of escape.

What they _do_ know collectively isn't much. They're in some Russian-speaking enclave, in a facility that's clearly unused and antique. There are four guards altogether here, along with Rossiter and the ugly old doctor—no one else has shown up, although they've heard some cell phone chatter through the walls, always in Russian. The biggest, ugliest guard has a crush on Ariadne, but Rossiter keeps the Hulk in check.

And delivery trucks come every few days; Arthur knows this because he's felt the rumble and heard the engines coming and going.

Ariadne assures them that they're near fresh water, that the dank mildew smell is definitely lake or river water.

Eames thinks they're north of Sofia because the daylight hours are shorter, and the sweaters that Rossiter wears have a definite Scandinavian look to them.

Altogether, it's not a hell of a lot, but Arthur figures every bit of information helps, and if they get a chance to get out, they'll take it.

Wearily he gets up and stretches, and cocks his head to listen because there's noise—trucks.

Trucks at this hour? They haven't even gotten breakfast yet. This is a definite break in routine.

Arthur listens more closely, moving to the door and resting an ear against the crack.

00oo00oo00

Ariadne is rising out of sleep, feeling warm and oddly content. She sighs, and rolls over in the cot, gradually opening her eyes, and when she does, the full memories of the night before come back in sharp, vivid detail.

She feels the race of flame across her face, tenses her entire body and swallows hard. Memories. When Ariadne licks her lips she remembers.

She masturbated.

She came.

She kissed them.

Arthur.

Arthur AND Eames.

Oh God.

Ariadne curls up tightly, fighting a welling of hysterical giggles that clench her stomach, and the thoughts and accusations and comments go zinging through her head like ping-pong balls, bouncing off her conscience with blinding speed.

She takes a deep breath, and slows her thinking down, examining her thoughts one by one, letting them drift by until they boil down to two in particular.

_I kissed two men and I liked it_ makes her snort into her sleeve. No argument there—kissing Arthur had been a fantasy come true, and Eames was simply sweet icing on the cake, thank you very much.

_I'm not officially a slut._ _Yet_. This one makes her wince a little, only because she's not sure if it's true or not. Ariadne doesn't _feel_ any particular shame or regret. She accepts that the weird sedative certainly loosened a few inhibitions, but compared to the side effects of a few of the others they've been given, it's almost mild.

She rubs her wrists, which are still scabby, and decides it's time to get up. It not easy; movement makes her dizzy, but Ariadne's determined to keep going. Carefully she gets off her cot and stretches, wishing it wasn't so cold. She pulls the blanket off and wraps it around her shoulders as Eames calls a greeting to her through the hole.

"Morning, Pet. Doing all right?" he asks, so she steps over and lies down, grateful for the blanket as she peers into the hole.

He's still rakishly handsome, even with his hair hanging in his eyes and a fuzzy beard all along his jaw line, and his welcoming smile makes Ariadne feels a rush of relief.

"Hey," Ariadne murmurs. "Are you okay?"

"I am," he assures her. "I definitely slept . . . well."

She blushes, because his tone is warm and sweet and suggestive all in one. Ariadne pulls up her courage though, and meets Eames' eyes. "Yeah, me too. I'm . . . not usually one to put on a show, but I was definitely in the mood last night."

"And a lovely one it was," Eames nods, his eyes crinkling as he smiles, "complete with audience participation, in stereo."

She brushes her hair back behind her ear, blushing again. "Yeah, I guess I could blame it on the sed, but you know what? I don't care. Last night was good for me, and if it was good for you guys too, so much the better. I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen."

"Oh sweetheart, I could _kiss _you for that," Eames grins, "I'll make that first on my list when we're out of here. Now go check in with the Point Man so he doesn't get overly paranoid, will you?"

Ariadne crawls on all fours over to the other hole, but Arthur isn't in sight. Curious and a little alarmed, she presses closer and looks through, seeing Arthur up against the door of the cell.

"Arthur?" she whispers loudly. He motions for her to be silent for a moment, and Ariadne complies, feeling a surge of anxiety as she does. When he finally turns from the door and drops down to the hole, his expression is distracted.

Ariadne impulsively reaches through the hole, and Arthur does a strange thing.

He kisses her hand.

Before she can say anything, he murmurs. "I think they're going to move us. Get ready. Tell Eames."


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur's right—all three of them can hear the scurrying beyond the cell doors now, and there IS no breakfast, just voices occasionally giving orders and slamming doors.

They go past the time they'd normally be herded out to Dream, and Eames feels his inner tension ratchet up a bit every time he hears footsteps in the hall outside. By noon, when the footsteps stop outside the door, Eames nearly jumps, but manages to compose himself as Rossiter waves him out.

He's in a heavy fur-trimmed parka, and wonder of wonders, isn't holding the taser this time; it's a gun instead. A Makarov pistol in fact, and Eames feels a spike of fear in his stomach, but Rossiter looks fairly frightened himself.

"Out," he orders."Now."

"In a hurry?" Eames bluffs, looking left, to see if either Ariadne or Arthur are out yet. They're not, but Rossiter is waving him in that direction.

"Shut up," comes the order. Rossiter unlocks the doors and both Ariadne and Arthur come out, both of them as wary as Eames while Rossiter waves the gun again. "All right, come on."

"Where?" Arthur demands, not moving an inch.

Irritated, Rossiter glares at him and makes a show of pointing the gun at Ariadne, and Eames takes an instinctive step towards her. "Now, now, let's play nice," he mutters. Ariadne stares at the gun with contempt.

"Move," Rossiter repeats. "_Now_, unless you want to freeze your fucking asses off for the next three months."

"Like we're not already," Eames hears Ariadne mutter, and he hides a grin, shifting a little to follow the order, as do the other two.

Rossiter hurries them along, and instead of taking them to the stone theater, he makes them take a turn along another hallway, moving them along. Eames feels the chill in the air, smells the heavy wetness of snow. He wants to look back and see Arthur or Ariadne, but can't because he's in the lead. The hallway has stairs, and then the ceiling rounds out, becomes more of a tunnel, opening into a small garage. A delivery truck is waiting there, the back open.

There are boxes in it, with Cyrillic labels that tell Eames nothing, but he notes that they're too neatly stacked—his guess is that this truck arrived but wasn't unloaded.

Odd.

"We're riding in back," Rossiter tells them. "First—"

He pulls out handcuffs from a pocket of his parka, and tosses them on the ground. "Put'em on."

Eames watches as Arthur bends and picks up the cuffs, moving slowly. It's damned cold now, with the truck bay open and the frigid gusts of wind blowing in. Eames sees nothing but snow and flat horizon in the dim light, and the wet scent is stronger. He holds out his hands obediently as Arthur cuffs him, and the ice of the metal on his skin makes Eames chuff a little in white clouds of breath.

Ariadne moves closer, pressing against him like a little kitten trying to get warm, because the jumpsuits aren't nearly enough against the chill. He sees Arthur cuff her as well, his touch lingering against her hands, but Rossiter is growling, his breath coming in white puffs.

"Enough of that! Finish it up and get in the damned truck so we can get the hell out of here!"

"Why are we leaving?" Ariadne persists, and Eames winces, because it's one thing to be tasered and another to be flat out _shot_.

"Storm," Rossiter reluctantly admits, not taking his eyes from where Arthur is slipping the last pair of cuffs on. "Can't take the risk of being snowed in with limited generator power. Get in."

Eames lithely hops his ass onto the tailgate and rolls into the truck's interior, then gets to his feet and holds out his cuffed hands for Ariadne, pulling her in. Arthur does the roll up as well, and then Rossiter awkwardly climbs in, reaching back to pull the tailgate up; it clangs loudly.

They're sitting on the boxes, waiting. Rossiter reaches his free hand into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone, mutters something into it, and the truck begins to roll out, making them shake as it moves. Eames is glad to be in the middle this time, and scoots closer to Arthur, who doesn't acknowledge the move at all while he stares at Rossiter.

00oo00oo00

An hour or so has passed, and Arthur is waiting. He knows Rossiter is bound to make a mistake, and soon. The man is no brain trust, just someone else's lackey, and this move is clearly not well planned. Arthur ticks off the mistakes evident at the moment.

No leg cuffs.

No dose of drugs to make them compliant or unconscious.

No extra security.

That tells Arthur that the storm warning must have come up suddenly, and by the way the wind is howling, it's damned near here.

"W-w-where are we going?" Ariadne wants to know, her teeth chattering as she looks back along the route. The truck rattles along a snow-covered road, the dark wood and cinderblock building behind them has disappeared behind a low rise, and the limited view out the back of the truck shows only desolate white prairie as far as anyone can see.

"Shut up," Rossiter mutters, shooting Ariadne a glare.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Eames bristle slightly, and stretch his legs out. It's weird to see him with loafers and grey socks at the end of the jumpsuit, but in truth, they all still have their original footwear.

"It was just a question," Eames points out mildly. "No need to get to get your knickers in a twist, mate."

Rossiter shifts to look at Eames, and that's all the opening Arthur needs. He lunges and hooks Rossiter's wrist in the chain of his handcuffs and twists, forcing the arm down. Rossiter struggles, but one quick head-butt and he's stunned. Eames moves quickly and pries the gun free, hefting it into his own hand.

"Ari—his pockets," Arthur orders fighting dizziness, and she scrambles to dig into Rossiter's parka, pulling out the cell phone, the cuff keys, a wallet and a Swiss Army knife.

Arthur watches Eames slide over to Rossiter and press the muzzle to his cheek, then mutter, "Arthur? How do we play this?"

"Coat. Give it to Ari," he mutters, blinking.

Rossiter whines, but Eames shakes his head sorrowfully. "Now, now, be a good boy and do what the man says."

Ariadne slips into the parka gratefully, and sorts out the keys for the cuffs as the truck continues to bounce along. Arthur is pleased that she undoes him first, and then Eames before working on her own cuffs.

Rossiter is wearing a thick sweater, and Arthur stares at it a moment. "Sweater. Take it off."

This brings on a torrent of swearing, but between the rumble of the truck and the howl of the wind, the sound is confined inside. Eames shifts the muzzle of the gun between Rossiter's legs. "Slowly, darling. Don't want me to get nervous at this point now, do you?"

Arthur watches Rossiter pull the garment off, and then stands up, working at keeping his balance. "Get up." He shoots Eames a look and the other man reads his intent perfectly, shifting until Rossiter is between them, standing with his back to Arthur.

He reaches up and wraps his arm around Rossiter's neck, bracing his hand on the side of his head and yanking it savagely. There's a faint sound of cracking gristle and the body slumps. Arthur sees Ariadne muffle a pained yelp into the sleeve of her parka, but there's no rebuke in her gaze; she knows the straits they're in right now.

This is about survival.

Arthur lowers the body to the floor of the truck and takes a moment to go through the pants pockets, finding a few other treasure, then he and Eames pick up the remains of Rossiter and lightly toss the body over the tailgate of the truck, into the swirling whiteness. It barely makes a sound hitting the snow-packed ground, rolling as the truck keeps moving.

Eames looks at the sweater for a moment, then hands it to Arthur. "Here. Not my size and definitely not my colors."

Arthur wants to protest, but Eames shakes his head. "You've got no body fat, darling; you need all the layers you can get. I'll pick up a coat somewhere."

"Now what?" Ariadne asks, looking from one man to the other, and Arthur gives her a faint smile.

"Now, we hijack a truck," he tells her as he pulls the sweater on.

00oo00oo00

Ariadne listens as Arthur and Eames talk in low voices. She's warm for the first time in ages, and it's making her sleepy, but she forces herself to pay attention.

"We don't know how much further we're going, so we need to act now," Arthur says. "At most there are two in the cab."

"Agreed, but two very possibly with guns," Eames points out. "We have only one."

"And this," Arthur holds up the taser taken from Rossiter's pants, and Ariadne laughs because he looks so pleased with himself.

It's quick. Eames pounds on the wall of the truck behind the cab, hard, and a few seconds later the truck slows to a stop. She stays curled up in a ball right by the tail gate, just the way they plan, and when the gate drops, she waits for the first touch.

The taser is fun, when you're not on the receiving end, Ariadne realizes. The Hulk goes down with one quick prod from her. Eames has the gun on the other man, and Arthur goes through everyone's pockets again, pulling out all sorts of stuff.

Arthur motions for her to get up, and Ariadne scoots to the front, climbing into the passenger side and onto the warm seats. The cab stinks of tobacco, but she doesn't care at this point, and she looks out the windshield, seeing a huge grey lake off to the left, frozen and cold in the distance, with trees around it.

Ariadne waits for the report of the gun, but it doesn't come; footsteps and then Eames is swinging up, now wearing the Hulk's parka. Arthur comes up on the driver's side a second later, in the other parka and climbs into the driver's seat.

She looks at Eames, who looks grim. "Guns aren't a sure thing, and we might need them later," he tells her, and she nods.

Arthur turns the ignition, shifts the truck into gear, and looks for a moment at the other two. "I have no idea where we are or where to go."

"Follow the road, I guess," Ariadne offers. "But we've got to find someplace to park before the storm gets worse."

Arthur nods. They drive.

The road is runs parallel to the huge lake. It's bumpy and the wind whips across the windshield; in the two or so hours they've been driving, not only have they not seen any other vehicles, but also, the storm has gotten worse. Much worse.

Ariadne has the added discomfort of straddling the gearshift.

Still, she and Eames have occupied themselves with the paperwork left on the seat; the manifests for the truck's load, all in Cyrillic, but some things look familiar.

"Sixty rolls of something; let's hope it's toilet paper," Eames sighs. "Speaking of which . . ."

"We don't exactly have any rest stops coming up," Arthur grumbles, but Ariadne shoots him a look, and he sighs. "Fine. I'll stop and we can go on opposite sides of the truck."

"Charming," Ariadne sighs, digging through the things Arthur's confiscated for the pack of tissues.

"Hey, we're out and we're _alive_," he points out, and Ariadne has to admit it's a hell of an achievement, so she leans up and kisses Arthur's scratchy cheek, feeling the furry dimple deepen under her lips.

"I _helped_; don't I get a kiss too?" Eames mock-grumbles, and Ariadne rolls her eyes but busses him as well.

She's about to say something else, but a post ahead catches her eye and she reaches down with her leg to step on Arthur's foot for the brake, forcing the truck to slow.

"Hey, I _was_ going to stop!" He protests, struggling with the glide of the tires on the icy road, but Ariadne tugs the wheel.

"Here. Turn here," she tells him. "Now."

Arthur faintly sees the rutted road, steep and treacherous as it leads down towards the lake. "What the fuck—why?"

"Mailbox. On the ground," Ariadne tells him firmly, feeling a sense of excitement. "That means a residence. Don't you see? A house, Arthur. Probably a summer cabin. An _empty_ cabin at this time of year."

It takes only a second for the pros to outweigh the cons in Arthur's eyes, and when Ariadne looks at Eames, he's grinning like the furry bear he is right now. "Worth a shot, Arthur—at least we'll have the shelter of the trees if nothing else."

Ariadne watched Arthur draw up his shoulders, and for the first time, she sees how heavily he takes the responsibility of leadership. He gives a soft, reluctant sigh.

"Fine. What the hell—it's the first sign of civilization so far," Arthur mutters, and turns the truck down the derelict road.


	10. Chapter 10

It's bloody hard to see the place, stuck between the massive pines, but Eames makes it out and Arthur steers towards it, the truck skating along now more by luck than skill. The three of them bounce like rubber balls on the seats, the suspension creaking as Arthur manages to get the vehicle to skid just past the cabin and beyond it, next to a smaller building. Once the truck stops, they all take a minute to breathe, and Eames feels a jittery excitement that's warming him better than any fire.

"No lights, shutters closed," Ariadne tells them, peering out Arthur's side window. "Nobody's there, so if we get in, we should be safe."

"That's _if_ we get in," Arthur reminds them. "At least our tracks will be gone in about twenty minutes at the rate it's coming down now."

"We'll get in all right, even if I have to shoot the bloody lock off," Eames breaks in. "I'm not spending the night out here—we'll fall asleep and freeze to death."

"It's a cabin," Ariadne mutters, "A summer place. There's a chance . . ." she hesitates, and both of them look at her, waiting. Eames loves how ruddy her cheeks are now that she's warm.

"A chance?" Arthur prompts, and she looks at him.

"That the keys are somewhere close by. People do that; they hide a spare set for a place like this because it's out of the way, and if they forget their original keys or lose them, they'd still want to be able to get in."

All three of them ponder that for a moment, and Eames sighs because it's logical, but still a long shot. A _very_ long shot. He looks at Ariadne and asks, "So—where do we look, oh Miss Expert on cabins?"

She snickers, grinning. "Porch first."

They get out and trudge through the shin-deep snow, making their way to the front door of the place, and when they reach it, they start looking. There's a lot of debris on the porch; dead branches and other crap—nobody's been here for a while, Eames figures. Maybe years.

Arthur is the one to find them; he's pointing up, along the little roof, and sure enough, high up, there are some brown keys hanging on an equally rusted cup-hook screwed into one of the beams, almost blending in because they're so oxidized. It only takes a moment to retrieve them, and fit them to the lock.

The damned key won't turn. The rust is thick, and Eames shifts around in the cold as Arthur fumbles with the lock, trying to get it to open. Then Ariadne does the oddest thing—she makes Arthur pull the key out, then leans in and spits into the lock. The key goes back in, and with some slow wrenching, Arthur gets it to turn.

Eames snorts. "Magic gozz—now I've seen everything."

"Heat," Ariadne calls, and Arthur pushes open the door, which gives an unholy screech on its un-oiled hinges. They all push on it, and it swings reluctantly inward, into darkness.

"Hang on," Eames fishes in the pocket of the parka he has on; Hulk had been a smoker, apparently, and the little plastic lighter glows to life with two flicks from his thumb. He steps in front, holding the tiny light out, feeling both brave and tense, straining to see into the room.

It's still mostly dark, and smells of mildew and dust. Eames sees a rug and beyond it, the lumpy shape of a sofa. He takes a step further in, and swings his arm around slowly.

"Yeah, nobody's been here in a while," Arthur observes dryly, closing the door behind him. "Smells like my Aunt Edna's attic."

Ariadne is pressing behind Eames, and the feel of her against his spine is nice. "Doesn't mean we won't find something nasty," he reminds them both.

Arthur flanks him, and they move slowly, trying to see more of the room. The sofa is covered in horrible plaid fabric, but there's a blanket across the back of it, and a few more steps reveal a fireplace beyond it, dark and empty.

"Okay, that's promising," Ariadne nods approvingly.

000ooo000ooo000

"_If _we're staying," Arthur cautions, still on the alert. "No electricity and probably no water." He looks around, aware that while they've got shelter for the moment, there are other factors to be considered. A haven from the storm is good, yes, but sooner or later they're going to need water and food, and some sort of toilet arrangement.

"We've got snow for water— it's make do but there's enough if we find containers," Ariadne tells him. "Let's see the rest of the place."

Arthur nods and they keep shuffling together behind the tiny out-held flame of Eames' lighter. It would be funny if the situation wasn't so desperate, but gradually they make a circuit of the ground floor getting a feel for the place.

It's compact; fifteen steps in every direction roughly, with a couple of square posts in the middle of the room supporting some sort of loft overhead. At the back is a small corner kitchen with linoleum-topped counters, a wood-burning stove and bone dry tin sink, but there's a hand pump that stands on the end of it so that means a well. Arthur notes that the stairs are against one wall, and there's a small closed off room near a back door that could be anything from a pantry to a bathroom.

The fireplace is in the opposite corner from the kitchen, and there are a pair of mismatched upholstered chairs near it, along with a bookshelf, a rotary dial phone and a desk that looks as if it's been stolen from some military office somewhere.

Once they've circled the room, Arthur looks towards the stairs, hesitating, and he notes that in the tiny flame, both Eames and Ariadne are waiting for him to speak. He feels a rush of affection for them both, and clears his throat. "Okay, the storm's getting worse, so the way I see it, we bunk here for the night and wait it out; we can decide what else to do tomorrow, when we have more light, depending on if the storm passes or not."

"Agreed," Eames nods, "Although getting a fire started might be nice," but Ariadne is shaking her head.

"The flue will be shut," she tells him, "And there's probably a ton of collected debris in it. We'll need daylight to clean that out."

"Well this bloody lighter isn't going to last all night," Eames reminds them. "Any torches in the truck?"

"Probably," Arthur agrees, "Although if you and I are going to get them and anything else we need to make it quick, while we still have daylight."

"I want to look upstairs, first," Ariadne tells them firmly, and Arthur can hear her teeth chattering a little. "You're _not _leaving me alone with a family of raccoons, or a hornet's nest or whatever's up there!"

For the first time there's dissent; Arthur can see that Ariadne's going to be stubborn because she thrusts her chin out and stares him down. He notes that Eames is trying damned hard not to smirk.

"Fine," he tells them flatly. "We'll check. Eames, you've got the light-"

They climb the stairs, making them creak, the three of them still huddled together. Eames holds out the light, and Arthur looks around once they've reached the top.

It's a loft that's only half the size of the room down below, but up here there's a wardrobe, a dresser, a dusty mirror over the dresser, and a bed.

A double bed with an iron frame, pushed against one wall, the coverlet on it faded and dusty, but still—a bed.

Ariadne makes a little noise in her throat, and Eames grunts in agreement. "Oh agreed in _spades,_ sweetheart; we'll sleep well tonight!"

Arthur protests. "We're not sleeping there."

"Why not?" Ariadne demands, and when she looks at him, he feels a rush of exasperation tinged with frustration. "It looks big enough for all of us."

"Because someone should be downstairs standing guard," Arthur points out bluntly. "By the door, in case anyone's followed us."

Eames laughs, and waves the lighter, making the flame flicker. "Darling, need I remind you that the late and unlamented Rossiter was moving us because of the major _storm_ outside? Nobody's going to be moving through that bloody maelstrom tonight!"

He's right of course, and Arthur knows it too—just getting to the truck is going to be a major undertaking now and the bed looks tempting as hell, but there are priorities if they're going to survive.

"It's a long shot," Arthur concedes, "and we can discuss the sleeping arrangements later, but right now, we need what we can haul in from the truck. Agreed?"

The other two shoot an amused look between them that annoys him, but when Eames and Ariadne turn to Arthur, they nod.

The truck has a few useful things. There's a flashlight in the compartment on the door, along with another lighter, roadmaps and some duct tape. Inside the truck, Arthur and Eames open a few of the boxes and find cartons of frozen dinners in one, cleaning supplies in another, and several boxes with canned goods.

"Lovely to know we've got gallons of applesauce and vegetable soup," Eames comments dryly. "Although this cooking oil might work if we find some lamps. Any luck with, say blankets, or some loo paper?"

Arthur sighs. He's chilled to the bone, achy and tired; the adrenaline that helped him take on Rossiter and the other goons has faded, and it's all he can do not to snap at Eames, but right now, the damned bed is looking better and better. "So far the only thing here you can use to wipe your hairy ass is the manifesto. Why the hell would they be shipping in so much detergent? It's not like they had a ton of laundry to do."

Eames stops and steps over, squatting down next to Arthur, close enough so that his frozen breath puffs against Arthur's cheek. It feels good, oddly. Eames gives him a somber look. "You know, none of us have our totems, pet. For all we know—seriously know—all _this _could be a dream."

Arthur nods. "Yeah, I thought of that too. But it's not limbo, and if it IS a dream, then we can stick it out until a kick comes, or we wake up. It's all we can do."

Eames looks slightly comforted; he reached out and pats Arthur's cheek. "Real or not, we need to get back—you're going to be frostbitten if we don't."

They make only three trips before Arthur insists they stop; neither he nor Eames can feel their feet anymore, and even their parkas can't keep out the bite of the howling wind. Ariadne has found a dried stub of a candle in a holder on the fireplace mantle, along with matches, so they have some light, feeble as it is.

000ooo000ooo000

She makes them brush the snow off their parkas. "Okay, we're going to eat, and then we're going to bed. No. Arguments." She tells them, cutting off Arthur's protests. "Damn it, we've had a hell of a long day, and it's_ not_ as if we've got energy to burn, Arthur."

Ariadne's relieved to see him agree; he's been through winters in Maine so Arthur understands the risks of hypothermia as well as she does. They sit in the little living room, slurping cold vegetable soup from the cans that Eames opens with the Swiss Army knife.

"Not to be indelicate, but we're going to need facilities for bodily functions at some point," he reminds them. "Any suggestions, since I haven't seen anything so far."

"The little room by the kitchen is a pantry," Ariadne tells them in a resigned tone. "Canned stuff, fishing equipment, gardening stuff, tools—no toilet."

"Place probably has an outhouse," Arthur gloomily sighs. "It would have to be at least fifty feet from the cabin so it doesn't contaminate the well. Frankly, I'd rather take a leak out the back door than make _that _hike in this storm."

Ariadne sighs, and feels her face go red, but it's got to be said. "We'll just have to use one of the garden buckets, for the time being. God, when we get back to civilization, I for one am _never _going to take a toilet for granted ever again."

And she won't. Ariadne's glad to be alive, yes, but the cost to her self-esteem hasn't been easy. She's never thought of herself as vain, but it's hard to cope with dirty hair and hairy legs.

"Here, here," Eames mutters, "have some applesauce."

An hour later, after they've bolted the doors from the inside, put away their supplies and warmed up a bit, Ariadne leads them up the stairs to the loft. The wind rattles the roof with every mournful gust, and the candle flickers, but the bed is still there. Ariadne moves over and tugs on the coverlet. "No sheets, damn it."

"Dresser," Arthur murmurs, and squats down, pulling out the bottom drawer. The sheets are there; a yellow set incongruously decorated with daisies. Eames laughs.

"Lovely. Let's make the bed, shall we?"

And they do. Ariadne is aware of tension in her stomach, tension that has nothing to do with the cold. It's been a hell of a day, and between the stress and fear and adrenaline, she knows it's only a matter of time before she cries, but for the moment, Ariadne is holding it at bay.

They make the bed, covering it with the chilly sheets, the musty coverlet and the extra blanket from the sofa downstairs. The pillows are ancient down, settled into rock-like piles, but Ariadne doesn't care. She starts slipping out of her boots and looks at Eames. "Underwear."

"Pardon?"

"Your jumpsuit pants and socks are damp," Ariadne points out. "Drape them on the foot of the bed and they'll dry. Arthur, same thing."

"Bossy, isn't she?" Eames murmurs, reluctantly undoing his parka and quickly unzipping the jumpsuit.

"Unfortunately, she's right," Arthur replies, and Ariadne ducks her head, stripping out of her own jumpsuit. She should be used to nudity around these two; they've showered together enough, but this is different, and she knows it.

She knows that _they_ know it too.

"I'm in the middle," Ariadne chatters. "Eames, g-g-get in."

"Fine," he grunts, and slides in, moving closest to the wall, yipping like a puppy. "Christ that's cold!" The mattress springs creak as he rolls to his side, beckoning Ariadne in. "Hurry!"

She dives, sliding on the cotton daisies and nearly collides with Eames; his warmth is magnet enough and Ariadne squeezes close, looking over her shoulder. "Arthur, come on!"

Slowly he squats and looked under the bed, then smirks up at her as he pulls out something white and mug-shaped. "Jesus, it's a fucking chamber pot."

"Wonderful. Terrific—Arthur, get in BED!"

He pushes it back, quickly blows out the candle and sets it on the dresser, before sliding into the bed. Ariadne lets out a happy groan because she's now sweetly sandwiched between two warm bodies.

The blankets are heavy and although the wind is howling, the warmth is quickly spreading. They all shift a bit, struggling to get comfortable, and the bumping of elbows and knees and hips make the bedsprings creak. The mustiness is almost sweet, though, and gradually they all settle in quietly.

Ariadne feels drowsiness seep through her; the good kind, borne of warmth and relaxation and contentment. Eames is on her right, Arthur on her left, and for the moment, all is right with her world.

She falls asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

It's hard to tell what time it is; Eames is on his side, certain that he's been sleeping for at least seven hours, maybe more, and he's not sure what's woken him up. It might be the slight scraping of the branches against the window, or the sound of Arthur's soft rumbling snore, but Eames is pretty sure it's the feel of Ariadne's warm little ass pressed ever so nicely against his morning erection.

This is a dilemma; a delicious, sweetly torturous dilemma, and while he debates what to do, Eames fights against the urge to rub himself against her.

Dangerous territory, with only a thin layers of underwear between them, he knows, and yet having thought about it, it's nearly impossible to stop his hips from pushing forward ev-er so slight-ly.

God it feels good, and Eames chokes down a little groan because his body is now fully awake and letting him know it with a vengeance, insisting that more rubbing needs to happen NOW.

And he's not strong enough to fight the impulse. Cautiously Eames tightens his stomach muscles and presses against Ariadne's adorable tushie yet again, fully ready to feign sleep should she make any sort of protest.

She does not. In fact, Ariadne . . . pushes back. This unexpected development startles Eames as much as it thrills him, and for a moment, he doesn't move, but the slow grind against his already overly-interested shaft nearly makes him—a grown man—whimper. His arm, which has been sedately draped over the cover and along her waist, curls tightly around her frame.

She rubs against him again, more firmly, which has the effect of firming Eames even more in return. He gives a strangled sigh, shifting forward to reach Ariadne's ear and whisper into it. "If you don't actually say 'no' aloud, does that mean this is all right?"

The only answer he gets for that was a soft hint of a giggle, but it is more than enough encouragement, and although Eames isn't sure how far matters will go, the here and now felt_ damned_ good. He happily slithers against Ariadne's lovely cheeks, feeling more and more like a randy teenager.

The bedsprings creak, nearly giving away the game, and Eames freezes, caught between pushing his luck and waking Arthur.

Ariadne has no such qualms; she laughs. The sound is so sweet and utterly relaxed that Eames smiles against the back of her head, lightly kissing her hair. "You're a dangerous woman, you know," he murmured.

"But _you're_ the one brandishing a weapon," Ariadne replies in a dry whisper. "Holy cow, I feel like I'm pressing against a tree trunk!"

This outrageous compliment makes Eames groan and throb at the same time. "Careful darling, it's been a while since I've had anyone . . . appreciate my charms."

"Let me give you a hand with that . . ." The offer comes and Eames damned near does too as Ariadne rolls over to face him, her expression perfectly impish. He shoots at glance at Arthur, and in answer to the question in his eyes, Ariadne's smile softens. "I'll be very good to him too, don't worry."

Eames nods, dry-mouthed, and she presses closer, slipping one small hand into his briefs, fingers curling around his turgid shaft. It's blackly exciting, this fumbling in the dim light, and Ariadne's grip doesn't quite fit around him. She strokes, and it's all he can do to bite his lips because within a few minutes, those sweet caresses are bringing matters to critical, and Eames kisses her entire face, savoring the taste, the feel of Ariadne's skin under his mouth.

"Darling-" he warns, his breathing ragged against her temple as his hips rock forward, driving his cock through her teasing grip, "I . . .

Ariadne smothers Eames' moan with her open-mouthed kiss, her fingers deft and strong, squeezing as his prick swells and spurts, long hot sprays soaking his underwear.

He doesn't care, not while the rich, wild intimate pleasure sears his frame and leaves him utterly satiated. Eames gives a last little thrust and sighs against Ariadne's mouth, his own lips turning up into a smile. "Oh bloody hell, sweetheart, that was a lovely hand-job!" he whispers gratefully.

"Sorry you're all . . . sticky now," she points out, nuzzling him and smothering a giggle along his cheek. "You can use a corner of the sheet to clean up . . ."

"In a moment," Eames sighs, feeling marvelous. "I'm more concerned about _you,_ love."

Ariadne kisses his furry chin. "Oh I've got a plan," she tells him in a whisper, and rolls over. Eames watches with amusement as she presses up against Arthur's back, and props his head up on the pillow, all the better to see.

000ooo000

The dream is confusing, and the noises are strange. Arthur muzzily shifts, feeling restless. He curls more tightly on his side, and when something warm presses against his spine, he gives a grunt.

He's aware that he's not _quite_ dreaming, but he's too comfortable and warm to wake up completely, so Arthur drifts, his unfocused thoughts slowly becoming more and more . . . sensual. The press against his back feels nice, and the light stroke along his hip does too, and the warm breath on the back of his neck; they're all good, and he grins, eyes still closed.

Warmth. Warmth after so long in the cold is good, and rubbing is good, and slowly Arthur becomes aware that more rubbing is going on. Enough rubbing to make him blearily blink and try to focus. He shifts, and suddenly the rubbing is _much_ nicer, making him give a happy hum.

"Hi, Arthur," Ariadne murmurs softly in his ear. His eyes open suddenly, and Arthur realizes that not only does he have her warm breath in his ear, making his ribs feel tickly, but also, that Ariadne's arm is draped over his hipbone, and her hand . . . God, her hand is . . .

"Uhhh . . ." It's not the most eloquent thing he's ever said, but then again, this isn't the sort of situation Arthur's ever been in with Ariadne outside of a damned good fantasy. The feel of her tickling fingers is a hell of a lot better reality check than any totem, and he feels himself swell enthusiastically.

"You like me," Ariadne tells him, and Arthur finds himself nodding; after all, how the hell can he disagree? Certainly his prick is in love, and the rest of him isn't far behind. He turns his head and she leans over his shoulder to kiss him; it's a soft brush of lips that should be chaste, but with the dance of her fingers along his shaft, it's amazingly sensual instead. A promise of things to come, and that thought makes Arthur groan.

Before he can say anything, though, Ariadne kisses him again, this time with more encouraging pressure, and Arthur rolls to his back, hands sliding up her arms to grip her shoulders. She tastes of hot roses, sweet and earthy; he lightly sucks her teasing tongue.

More kisses, deep and delicious; Arthur is slightly dizzy. Ariadne stretches out on top of him, and the weight of her—what little there is—presses very nicely on his stomach and thighs and cock. He nuzzles her face, nipping softly, licking, savoring the salt of her skin and letting the moment unfold.

The simple act of rubbing is making Arthur breathe harder, and when Ariadne straddles him, bringing her knees to press against his hipbones, Arthur's fingers tighten on her upper arms as he fights for control. The heat, the pressure, the sight of Ariadne in the dim light, hair hanging down, happy gleam to her gaze; all of it makes him a little insane because he fucking WANTS her.

Rightnow.

He pushes his hips up. "Ari—!" It's hard to think, especially when she grinds sweetly against him. Ariadne tosses her hair back, and impatiently reaches for one of his hands, pulling it down between her legs. Arthur cups a thigh, slips his thumb in the leg hole of her panties and brushes the delicate fur there.

"Fuck!" he growls, gritting his teeth as his prick throbs relentlessly. Arthur strokes his thumb up, brushing the firm little button between Ariadne's thighs. She tenses, knees gripping him, and the breathless groan rising out of her throat, reckless and female does it.

Arthur comes. Big time.

Thrust after thrust along the warm, damp trench between Ariadne's spread thighs, he rocks upward, gasping as she rubs against his thumb, her own orgasm pulsing over his, lovely and hot.

It's only a few seconds later that Arthur realizes where he is, and snaps his head to the right. Eames is barely an arm's length away, breathing shallowly, his eyes glittering in the dim light. "Oh darlings, you really are such a lovely sight to wake up to," he breathes, one big hand pressed to his own briefs.

Arthur swallows convulsively, but Ariadne turns his head back to face her and kisses him warmly, her contentment obvious in her smile.

000ooo000

Ariadne feels like melted butter lying on Arthur; warm and oozy. He's all muscle and warmth and judging by the intensity of their orgasms, certain a point man to be respected. She knows too, that he's not as relaxed as he should be, and that's something that she needs to fix.

Carefully, Ariadne brushes one side of her hair back behind her ear and holds Arthur's gaze. "It's okay," she assures him in a soothing voice. "It's Julian. He's a part of us."

Arthur blinks; he's going to protest, but she presses the tips of her fingers against his narrow lips. "He is. You're mine and he's mine too. We're a team. We're _more_ than a team, Arthur."

It's important for him to accept it, Ariadne knows. It's important, because it's true. They all need each other now—more than ever if they're going to survive.

"I don't . . ." he begins, his protest soft but urgent. "I'm not gay."

"I know, pet," Eames murmurs soothingly. He's scooted closer, his smile soft and patient. "I'm not either, half the time."

Ariadne chuckles because it's a typical Eames thing to say; blunt and wry.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Still awkward, he mutters.

Ariadne reaches down and grabs his ears, giving Arthur a stern look. "Look, for two months we've heard each other farting and crapping and peeing and snoring, Arthur. I've showered with you both enough to know exactly what you look like naked. Don't talk to me about awkward, because it's not a factor anymore. Right now we're warm and safe, and I for one need you _both._ Got it?"

She keeps her eyes locked on his, trying not to let any fear show, but it's hard because Arthur has a way of looking all the way down into her soul.

Arthur's expression softens a bit, and he gives a sigh that she feels more than hears. One hand slides up the back of her thigh and over her ass in a slow caress. "You found the cabin," he murmurs. "And how to get inside. I guess I can work on the . . . ménage thing."

Eames laughs. "If it's a matter of proving our merits, Arthur, I think I can safely state that I provide more body heat than the pair of you. _And_ I can cook."

Ariadne is pleased to feel Arthur chuckle underneath her. "I've got a newsflash for you, Eames-Opening cans does _not_ qualify as cooking."

"Sod off," Eames responds good-naturedly. "Once we get the stove going downstairs, I think I can re-establish my credentials, mate."

Ariadne shifts a little, and winces at the stickiness of both her and Arthur's underwear . "Actually, I think maybe laundry might be a good idea too." She kisses Arthur once again, then slowly rolls off of him, flopping a bit on the mattress, and pulls Eames's face to hers for another kiss. His is teasing and sweet, and when she lets him go, she peeks over at Arthur. He's scowling a bit, his hair loose and tangled against the pillow, one hand absently rubbing his stomach.

"Working on it," he murmurs uncertainly. Ariadne motions for him to scoot closer and slowly he does. She puts an arm under his shoulder and lets him rest his head on her chest.

"Good, she tells him. "Good. We'll get up in a little while."

They drift off again, and outside, the wind picks up once more, howling mournfully.


	12. Chapter 12

According to one of the confiscated cell phones, it's about ten thirty, and everyone is hungry. Eames gets up, climbs into the grungy jumpsuit once more, and heads downstairs. The light is still dim, but he opens each window and reaches through, pushing open the shutters, then closes the glass again, bringing more light in.

Not much more, but some.

It's cold, and the first order of business is to rummage for some footwear; the pantry in the back holds some felt boots. Eames carefully turns them upside down and runs a hand in them to make sure nothing nasty is inside. The fit is a bit roomy, but Eames isn't complaining. Whistling, he putters in the kitchen, looking in all the cabinets, taking mental inventory, and feeling cheerful.

There are pots and pans and utensils and dishtowels and all the accoutrements of cooking—used, battered and mis-matched, but Eames doesn't care. The simple pleasure in being able to finally _do_ something is enough to keep him smiling. That, and the memories of the morning. He checks the stove—a heavy cast iron number from the Twenties or Thirties, Eames guesses.

It needs wood, and he checks the wooden crate by the back door, pleased that there is enough to start a fire . . . if he knew how.

Starting fires are not his forte, Julian knows sadly. He can cook on one, but actually getting one started isn't in his repertoire, so he lumbers to the foot of the stairs and calls up. "Ariadne, be a love and come help me."

There's a soft padding of feet, and she grumpily comes down, clad only in socks and one of the parkas. "What do you need?"

"Help with the fire. As in, how do I make one? And no snide comments, all right, not if you want breakfast," he warns. She makes a face at him, but goes to the corner kitchen and peers into the stove.

Ten minutes later, with wood, scrap paper from the pantry and the lighter, Ariadne's managed to build a small but growing fire in the belly of the stove. Eames is quietly amazed, but she shrugs it off, pushing the sleeves of the parka up a bit. "It's going to need more wood throughout the day; there's enough in the box for about three, but we'll need to transfer some from outside to dry out. What's for breakfast?"

"Eggs," Julian assures her. "Powdered but perfectly good, and probably some applesauce and water. We could use the protein, frankly."

She nods, still squatting to look at the flames. "Sounds good. Any really big pots? I wouldn't mind a sponge bath, later."

Eames smiles. "I haven't looked everywhere yet, darling, but I'm sure there's something about. Where's Arthur?"

Ariadne gives a shrug. "Probably making the bed. Where did you get the boots?"

"Pantry. I think whoever owned this place must have been about my height and weight. Is there enough light to check that fireplace?" Eames asks gently. He's deftly mixing the eggs up, fork lightly reconstituting them in a tin bowl, keeping an eye on the skillet already on top of the stove. Ariadne pads off towards the living room and leaves him to cook.

He enjoys it. Julian Eames is no expert, but eggs and simple dishes are easy enough, and the very act of _doing_ something creative cheers him up to no end, particularly when the final product is something worth the effort. He adds a dash of salt from one of the little mushroom-shaped shakers in one of the cabinets and begins to whistle.

00oo00oo00

Arthur finishes making the bed, and lays his palms on it for a moment, staring at the coverlet. It's an old and faded one; blue, with stripes, but he doesn't really see it. Instead, he's lost in the memory of the morning, of dry-humping with Ariadne until it became wet humping, with Julian watching them.

He isn't sure how he feels about it all. Part of him—the uptight and cautious aspect of his personality—is chiding him for losing any sense of dignity. Another part is wondering if he can still call himself any sort of team leader after an encounter like that.

And another part is wondering if it will ever happen again.

To avoid thinking about it, Arthur climbs into his jumpsuit, wincing at the chill and stench. After opening the window shutters for more light, he carefully goes through the dresser, drawer by drawer, taking note of what he finds.

It's clear from the contents that this cabin is a summer getaway—the socks in the top drawer are thin except for a few woolen pairs in the back, and the boxer shorts old-fashioned enough to have drawstrings on them. The second drawer is more promising—there are a few sweaters here along with some undershirts and a handful of candles. The third holds more sheets and pillowcases, as well as a crumbled and fading sachet of lavender.

Feeling around under the folded sheets yields a surprise that makes Arthur snort in amusement: a couple of carefully preserved and ancient nudist magazines in Norwegian or Finnish. He wonders if this is the previous owner's porn stash, or a sign of the man's lifestyle before putting them back in place.

The armoire is a treasure trove. There are some coats and sweaters on ancient wooden hangars, along with slacks and a set of overalls. All of them have the sharp tang of mothballs clinging to them, a scent that brings back memories of childhood for Arthur. On the upper shelf are more blankets, a knit cap, an ancient hot water bottle, and a battery-operated radio, so old it has a dial on it.

Arthur picks it up, and half-way down the stairs, the scent of eggs catches his nose. He moves more quickly, and turns to the kitchen corner, where Ariadne and Eames are just setting out plates. Both of them smile at him.

"Look who the cat dragged in," Eames murmurs. "Think you could stand to eat my cooking?"

"Where did we get eggs?" Arthur sidesteps the question with one of his own as he sits down. There are two chairs and a stool, so at least they can dine together. Eames loads a plate and passes it to him. Ari curls up on the stool, pouring cups of something vaguely orange-colored.

"Powdered. They last up to ten years that way, so we're safe. Ari found a jar of Tang of all things. We're practically civilized now."

Arthur shoots Eames a dry look that the Englishman chooses to ignore. The eggs are good—hot and fluffy—and they all begin eating, filling themselves quietly. Arthur finishes his plate and Eames loads it again, shooting him a serious look. "Eat," he tells him softly. "We need to fill up while we can."

It makes sense; Arthur nods and starts on the second helping.

Ariadne slurps up the last of her applesauce and speaks. "I can open the flue, but when I do, the fireplace is going to fill up with the debris and snow, so if we have a box or a container of some kind—maybe one of the cardboard boxes from the truck—we can catch it and drag it out. There's wood enough for about three days for both the stove and the fireplace, but we'll need to restock so whatever we bring inside dries out and doesn't smoke as much. I think the fireplace should be a priority. That, and our, um, toilet."

Arthur looks up, realizing that both Eames and Ariadne are looking at him, and he feels a rush of warmth on his face as he realizes they're expecting him to tell them what to do; what the agenda is.

That they're ready to follow him.

It's a hell of a vote of confidence, and Arthur coughs a little, choked up at the unexpected emotion welling up inside. He pushes his plate away, and puts his elbows on the table, taking a deep breath. "Okay," he murmurs voice low. "Since there's no signal on the cells, I want to go out to the truck and make sure it's secure. After that, we can scout the immediate area, work on the fireplace and get it cleared out. As for bathroom facilities, we've got the chamber pot upstairs; I guess we can use it and dump it outside as needed for now. Questions?"

Eames is picking up plates, neatly stacking them. "Saw another pair of boots—rubber ones—inside the pantry. I'm going with you to the truck."

Arthur gives a slow nod of agreement. "Okay."

00oo00oo00

Ariadne pokes a broomstick up the chimney, wincing as bits of tree branch and twigs come tumbling down. There's not much blockage left; most of it is in the cardboard box inside the fireplace, waiting to be lugged out and dumped. She can see all the way up the chimney now, a small square of white sky above, and the chilly air whistles down into her face, bringing with it the scent of wet snow and old ashes.

She doesn't mind the smell, but the wind is freezing, and Ariadne wants to get the fire laid quickly, because she's found a galvanized washtub on the back porch, and while it's not huge, she'll fit into it easily, and God she wants a _bath_ as soon as possible.

Fire, then hot water, then bath—Ariadne has it all planned out, and the anticipation is making her crazy. Carefully she checks the chimney once more, then drags the box across the newly-swept floor, towards the back door of the cabin, wishing her grungy socks were thicker.

Eames and Arthur are scouting around while there's still light; they've agreed to a time limit and a signal when they return home, but Ariadne isn't worried. The snow is easily a foot deep, and by the smell in the air there will be more overnight. No, the only thing on her mind is scooping some of the fresh snow into pans, heating it up, and getting clean.

She dumps the box of twigs and snow over the edge of the back porch, and looks up. The hills rise behind the cabin, covered with tall pines, hiding most of the cabin. From here Ariadne can see the truck, half-buried several yards away, and further than that, some sort of building—a stable perhaps, or a tool shed. It's too big and too close to be an outhouse, unfortunately, and she steps back inside, closing the door.

Time enough to explore later—at the moment, there's a fire to be laid.

Now more than ever, Ariadne is grateful for her bohemian childhood and all the many campfires she'd helped set up on various digs around the world. She knows how to lay the bigger chunks of wood to frame it, how to set the nest of kindling and how to coax a flame up into something bigger. It helps that the stove fire is already lit too, and she can bring a burning branch over to work with.

The draw up the chimney works nicely, and a short while later, Ariadne pulls off her socks and warms her toes, feeling . . . smug. She looks from the cheery fire to the front door, and makes up her mind, because to be honest, she can't stand it a minute more.

Clothes from the dresser, laid out. A handful of kitchen towels, neatly stacked, along with a dried bar of hand soap and a washcloth . . . Ariadne drags the elongated tub in, sets it in front of the fire and goes to the back door. Five pans of clean snow later, the tub is a quarter filled, and she sets the kettle and two pots on the stove to heat, plus another big pan of water near the fire itself.

Once the water is hot, she mixes it with the melted snow, balancing hot to cold until the Goldilocks temperature is _just_ right, and not too high. Ariadne strips and gets in.

The tub is compact, but so is she. The warm, _bliss_ of being in the water makes her moan with pleasure. She begins to scrub, ducking her head down between her knees and soaking her hair, working up a reluctant lather from the dried out bar.

It's primitive and cramped and heavenly.

Halfway though her scrubbing, the sharp sound of Arthur's whistled tune along with the cold blast from the opening door makes Ariadne growl. "Close the door!"

"Oh my . . ." Eames murmurs, peeling off his parka and stepping out of his felt boots. Ariadne can see his envy through his amusement. "Clever girl, finding that."

"I thought I'd reward myself for getting the fire going," Ariadne tells them, pulling the washcloth over her chest. "Honestly, if I had to sleep in grime once more I was going to scream."

The three of them look at each other; the gold of the firelight paints their faces and illuminates their wordless agreement.

Arthur comes over and picks up the pan by the fire, checking the temperature with a finger before carrying it over. At Ariadne's nod, he slowly pours it over her head, while Eames stands ready with one of the dishtowels, gently wrapping her hair in it afterwards, wringing the excess water out. He helps her out of the tub and Arthur tenderly dries her off, holding out the clean boxer shorts and a sweater for her to step into even as Eames drags off the tub to empty it out the front door, then brings it back, stripping down and kneeling in it.

Eames' bath is punctuated by groans of pleasure, and Ariadne grins as she soaps his broad back. Arthur fetches more snow and one of the spare sheets from upstairs. After rinsing off, Eames dresses while Ariadne and Arthur dump the water outside and refill it again with fresh water from the pans on the stove.

Then it's Arthur's turn, and Ariadne takes pleasure in scrubbing his shaggy hair, working her fingers against his scalp as Eames adds more water into the tub. The light has faded from the windows, and the glow of the fire is more pronounced now, highlighting bright eyes and dimples.

When Arthur is done, he dries himself in the sheet and slips gratefully into the boxers Eames offers. The three of them drop in a cozy, comfortable tangle on the sofa facing the fire; warm, clean and relaxed.

Arthur slips an arm around Ariadne, who's yawning, and lightly brushes his fuzzy lips against her temple. "Good call."

"The fire, or the bath?"

"Both. We found the outhouse, which will need some cleaning. And a dock on the lake," Arthur tells her through a yawn. "And a sauna."

"A sauna?" Ariadne blinks.

Eames laughs, a low sound on the other side of Arthur, stretching his big, elegant feet towards the fire. "The building out back—wooden planks, rock steamer, ceramic fireplace. If we're here long enough I insist we try it out, loves. Does wonders for the skin, you know. And there are towels out there. Real ones."

Ariadne tries to get indignant, but she's all warm and cozy now. "All that, and you two let me climb into a little _bucket_ in front of the fire?"

Arthur looks at Eames and then back at her.

They both nod.


	13. Chapter 13

Dinner is a mix of canned chicken and beef stew over instant potatoes—filling and hot. Going to bed is easier after that; Eames watches as Ariadne banks both fires, explaining about what she's doing and why it's important. He's not sure he can do it himself, but that's all right; Ariadne's got it.

Arthur prowls around, closing the shutters and nearly freezing to death as he does, bolting the doors securely before the three of them climb the stairs to the loft. The stairs creak, the wind howls outside, and Eames feels glad that they're not lying on stone floors or thin cots tonight. When they reach the upper level, Ariadne sets the candle down on the dresser, slips off her socks and slithers into the bed.

Eames hesitates, and stepping out of his felt boots, follows her, secretly thrilled to be in the middle for once. Ari clings to his right side, her warmth merging with his. After a moment, the candle goes out and the mattress dips as Arthur slides in on the left with a grunt.

They lay there for long moments, not speaking and then . . . and then . . .

Ariadne giggles. A good snorty giggle; instantly contagious. Eames feels himself start to shake as he tries to suppress his own response, but really, what's the point? Her little body is quivering against his, and every time she tries to settle down, the giggles start up again, a mix of cold and embarrassment and relief.

Finally Arthur rumbles at them. "Jesus, it's like sleeping with a couple of seven-year olds."

Eames can't help himself. "And you know all about that, do you, Darling?"

Ari laughs louder now, her chuckles half-smothered against his shoulder, and Eames feels himself swell with love and lust. She smells delicious, and so does Arthur; it's heavenly being in the middle. Her hand is sliding over his bare chest, and oooh that touch ignites memories of the morning.

"I can't help it," Ariadne half-explains, half-apologizes. "It feels so damned good to be clean and warm and with the two of you."

"A very mutual feeling, pet," Eames assures her, "snug against the storm."

Arthur rolls over and away from them, and for a moment that little rejection hurts, but Eames sighs and turns himself, spooning up against Arthur's spine. God the man smells good. For a moment, he feels Arthur tense, but neither of them say anything. Then Ariadne curls up along Eames' spine and gives a contented sigh.

And giggles once more.

00oo00oo00

Arthur rolls back again in exasperation, because is it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet? Eames however, doesn't turn, and Arthur finds himself beard to beard in the dark. He can't easily see Eames' grin but he can damned near feel it.

"Yes?" Eames drawls, and Arthur is tempted to knee him.

Somewhere deep down inside, Arthur knows it's not because he's actually repulsed by the Englishman; it's because in truth, he's not.

The unbidden, blunt reality he's starting to recognize is that if he ever _were_ to engage in a relationship with a man, it would be with Eames. The forger is by turns witty, infuriating, attractive and annoying, and wears his own multi-layered sexuality like a loosely knotted tie; comfortable and flashy.

"People are trying to sleep," Arthur mutters.

"So sleep," Eames replies comfortingly. "Ari and I will try to keep things quiet, love."

Arthur glares. "Keep _what_ quiet?"

"Nothing, nothing," Eames lies. "You just close your eyes and get some rest, Arthur. We'll wait until you're asleep."

"What? No. You're not going to . . ." Arthur hisses, his hackles—along with other things—up now. Part of the emotion surging through him is a sense of possessiveness about Ariadne, but another part is a strange longing . . . not to be left out.

He tenses at this illogical insight, but Eames doesn't give him much time to contemplate it; the other man slips an arm around him and pulls Arthur up against him, purring. "Is someone feeling unloved?"

"Let go of me, or lose an arm—" Arthur growls, in the panicky position of making threats even while his body savors the shared warmth under the covers. Then Ari leans over Eames' shoulder.

"Arthur," she murmurs, "which one of us should kiss you right now?"

He pauses. That damning little hesitation is enough to make Eames laugh, and Ari slither over the Englishman to brush her mouth against Arthur's lips.

After that, Arthur decides that if he's going to lead, he's damned well going to enjoy it. He kisses Ari in return, leaning over Eames himself to do it, amused at how his weight makes the man grunt happily. Ariadne is eager, and kisses him in return, a delicious tangle of lip and tongue and gasps.

Arthur likes kissing, and considers it a terrific activity all on its own. He reaches up and cups the back of her head; Eames smirks up and watches, his hands running down both of their backs in a lazy caress, slow and strong, each stroke comforting as well as sensual.

Ariadne is giving little happy whimpers and Arthur almost grins because it's clear that both he and Eames are enjoying her arousal. She wriggles, moving as if to climb over the Englishman, but Arthur brings his other hand up to cup one of her breasts, making her gasp against his lips.

"What," he manages to ask with soft urgency, "do you want?"

He knows what _he _wants, but this is a new game; a different playing field so to speak, and Arthur's determined to err on the side of caution, even as his body leans a little harder on Eames.

Ariadne tosses her hair out of her eyes. She looks a little dazed, but Arthur can see the determined set of her chin. Instead of giving him an answer, she bends down, nips Eames' shoulder and when he laughs, she rolls over him to take the middle.

"I want that spot back, later," Eames warns her sweetly.

They don't talk after that; Arthur feels a little self-conscious making love in front of Eames, but that fades when Ari helps him out of his boxers, her hands sliding all over his body as she kisses him, clings to him, slides her fingers over his sticky cock.

Arthur rolls her over, arching into Ariadne as her lean little thighs wrap around his hips.

He pushes; the slick tight heat of her cleft makes Arthur grunt helplessly because it's been a long fucking time since he's done this, and FUCK this is ARIADNE under him, writhing and digging her nails into his shoulders, telling him she needs more, harder, much harder damn it . . .

Arthur plows into her ruthlessly, close, close, soclose to coming, but not going over, because Eames is RIGHT there, licking his lips, saying nothing, but watching with that hot-eyed gaze of his, and Arthur WANTS to come, but can't . . . quite . . .

Then Eames deliberately runs one wide palm down Arthur's sweat-dampened spine, and the heat of that heavy hand gliding down to his ass does it.

Fuck.

Arthur groans as the white-hot flare of overwhelming pleasure rockets through his prick in sullen, delicious spasms, driving him harder into a gasping Ariadne.

00oo00oo00

She can't breathe; her orgasm surges so fast, tensing every fiber in her body. Ariadne's nipples are so damned hard that they _ache_ and when Eames bends his head to suckle on the nearest one, she shudders with pleasure. Then Arthur drops his mouth to the other one, and Ariadne cries out in wild delight, weakly pushing them away after a moment because it's too much and she's too sensitive now.

Arthur is slumped on her, his damp, lean weight wonderful; Ariadne kisses his temple and at the same time, reaches one hand out to Eames, curling it around his neck to pull him into a kiss.

It's a great kiss. Eames is a nuzzler, and plays with her lips, his tongue tracing them playfully. Ariadne laughs, feeling decidedly decadent at having one man still in her while kissing another, and when she smiles, Eames arches an eyebrow questioningly.

"You're next," she murmurs firmly, shooting back a smutty glance that makes his grin widen.

"Seeing how you've drained our Point Man, I'm not sure whether to be frightened or thrilled, oh terrible pixie," he rumbles softly.

"Terrible, yes," Ariadne assured him, "pixie, no."

With a last kiss to Arthur's cheek, Ariadne shifts from under him, fighting a smirk when she feels his softened prick slide out and leave a trail along her thigh. Arthur gives a sleepy groan of protest, but she strokes his damp forehead.

"We share," she murmurs, feeling a rush of tenderness at the sleepy and contented expression on his face. Arthur is so damned serious so much of the time that seeing him like this-satiated and relaxed, his hair a tousled mess as he grins—makes her heart do flipflops.

"Okay," he murmurs, and she turns to Eames.

He scoops her up and pulls her over his torso, brushing her hair back, touching Ariadne's face and shoulders and breasts, and she savors how gentle he is. That smirking mouth needs to be kissed, so she does, and shifts, pressing against his thick shaft in a teasing lean of weight.

"Someone's a bit bossy in the sack," Eames murmurs, not sounding at all upset about it.

Ariadne lifts her chin. "Be good," she whispers, and shifts herself along his body. Eames catches her hips, and pushes into her, his expression shifting from mirth to hot-eyed lust as he groans.

She gasps a bit too; nothing about Julian Eames is small, and being on top re-affirms that. But he's gentle as well, and slows himself, letting her get used to him deep within her. Ariadne rocks herself, feeling his heat, his need.

He moves under her, murmuring endearments and stroking her spine; Ariadne braces her small hands on his chest for balance, and within minutes, the slow, sweet torque of a second orgasm building makes her move more quickly. Eames is breathing hard himself now, fingers tightening on her hipbones, and she looks towards Arthur, who is on his side, watching, the sheet pooled around his lean, bare hip. Blindly Ariadne reaches one hand for his, catches it, and brings it to her mouth, sucking his index finger, tasting the calluses there.

"Oh you evil minx . . ." Eames growls, watching her lips working over Arthur's finger in lewd imitation of a much more naughty act. It's enough to bring him off, and Eames gasps, thrusting up hard in a series of quick spasms, his entire body one hard, tense slab.

She's barely aware of it though, caught up in her own softer, sweet orgasm, and when Ariadne can breathe, she licks and kisses Arthur's finger lovingly before pulling away and bending to kiss Eames, who lies back against his pillow, exhausted but smiling.

"Goodnight, sweethearts," she murmurs, and slips to the other side, letting Eames take the middle again as she curls against him.

"Thank you," Eames sighs blissfully. Ariadne feels Arthur reach across the Englishman to lightly rub her shoulder.

Gradually, they all drift off to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning is even chillier; Eames is glad that they've got fires ready to go, so to speak. He waits until Ariadne's up and heads down a few minutes later, thinking about breakfast.

Taking a leak outside is not fun. Eames grumbles. The snow has stopped falling now, but the light is still thin, and the temperature is damned cold. He sidles up to one of the nearest pines and urinates, amused at the steam rising. He's about to zip up again when he hears the back door open and Arthur steps out, heading his way.

"This tree's taken!" Eames calls, but Arthur trudges through the snow to the other side and unzips.

"Not around back," he hears Arthur give a sigh.

Eames snorts and tucks himself in, then turns his back to the tree, wondering if Arthur will say anything more. The utter stillness of the woods is a bit unnerving, and the blanket of white makes it hard to tell how close or how far things are.

"We need to talk," Arthur mutters, zipping up and stepping away from the pine. Eames nods slowly, turning to look at him.

Arthur is in his serious mode; his jaw, although stubbled, is set, and he cocks his head in a way Eames hasn't seen since working with Cobb.

"All right love, what's on your mind?" Eames prompts him, wondering if this is going to be some denial of the night before, or line in the sand about Ariadne. Both would be . . . regrettable.

"We're on borrowed time," Arthur begins quietly. "The people Rossiter was working for are going to start trying to piece things together, and although it may be a while until they do, eventually they will. Given the amount of gas in the truck, I'm guessing that the nearest civilization is within a hundred miles, maybe less so we need to figure out where the hell we are, Eames."

Eames nods, trying to hide his relief that the conversation is factual, not emotional. "I agree."

"Good. I think I can work with the cell phones, but chances are good they've got GPS chips, and that might bring anyone looking for us right to the cabin," Arthur points out glumly. "So it's a matter of taking them apart and getting the chips out."

Eames speaks quietly. "You know the lorry-sorry, truck-may have a charger that works off the lighter socket; I know I'd bloody well have one if I was driving in snow like this."

"We'll check again," Arthur agrees. "We also need to make an inventory of everything we've got—weapons, food, tools-because according to the date, Christmas was a week ago, and I don't think we've seen the last storm."

"We've missed . . . Christmas?" For some reason Eames is startled, and a little sad. Not that the holiday was a particularly big celebration for him, but the sights and sounds were always a joy, especially from his flat in London.

"Today's the thirtieth," Arthur informs him, motioning to walk back. "Tomorrow will be hell on the phone connections, so we need to try calling out as soon as possible."

"All right. What about—" Eames waves vaguely in the direction of the outhouse, barely visible a distance away. "Trees are only good for um, half the equation, so to speak."

It amuses Eames to no end to see Arthur wince, and cup his hands to blow on them. "You didn't tell her about the bats, did you?"

"Nnnnnno."

"Crap. All right, I'll . . . take care of it." Arthur grumbles. His face is going red, partially from the cold and partially because Eames knows he's remembering when they first found the ancient facility and all the swearing and swinging in the air that involved.

Eames shudders; it's bad enough to have to hike for some privacy, but having small furry bowties up above watching you is something that will take getting used to. He wonders if Ariadne is afraid of any animals. "Fair enough. Let's go get some nosh and get started then."

000ooo000ooo000

This time it's pancakes; no butter, but some crystallized honey melts in a pan on the stove and it makes them palatable. Arthur is amused at how comfortable Eames is with cooking. It's clear the man appreciates being able to do it, despite the difficulties of no running water.

Afterwards the three of them convene in the living room in front of the fire and make plans. Arthur explains about the outhouse, and surprisingly, Ariadne wants to see it, and the bats, so the pair of them bundle up and head out into the stillness, their breath coming in white plumes as they leave Eames to keep an eye on the cabin.

It's the first time he's been alone with Ariadne since this all began, and it feels . . . odd. But in a good way; she takes his hand and they trudge through the snow, and her fingers feel good intertwined with his. He helps her through some of the drifts, and she looks at him now and then with that intensity that's so particularly hers.

The outhouse looms; it's wooden, like the cabin, with shuttered windows as well, and steps leading upwards. Inside, Ariadne snorts at the lone porcelain fixture set against one wall. "It looks like a flush toilet."

"With no flush," Arthur mumbles, lifting the lid to reveal deep, dank darkness underneath. It's a straight drop, apparently, but other than that, it looks to be a toilet, and not just a seat on a ledge, or heaven forbid, a squat toilet. He watches her eye it, and shrug, then look upwards.

"So . . . wow, we really_ do_ have company up there," Ariadne observes, because yes, there are four bats huddled in one corner of the outhouse, fuzzy-looking cocoons dangling from the wood beams. She looks interested, not terrified, and that's a relief. "Okay then, they don't bug me. Any paper?"

"The little cabinet there has some, but it's pretty brittle," Arthur tells her, pointing to the one piece of furniture. "There might be more in the cabin, and I'm hoping like *hell* there is some in the truck."

Ariadne nods, and then shifts from foot to foot. "Yeah. And, um, if you don't mind stepping outside and standing guard?"

He does, amused and embarrassed at the same time. Arthur walks away from the building and looks around, trying to get a lay of the land. Both the cabin and the outhouse face the lake; he can see it through the trees, frozen and still. Arthur looks up, trying to see if the smoke from the cabin is visible, but the trees are tall enough to block it. There are heavy clouds above, with only a few patches of blue visible here and there.

After a while Ariadne comes out, grabs a handful of snow and rubs it on her hands in an impromptu wash. She's smiling, her expression wry. "Whoever our host was, he sure went for the basics, huh?"

Arthur shrugs. "I'd guess he was a single man, some mid-level bureaucrat who was into fishing. I don't know why he gave the place up—my guess is that most likely he died, and nobody knew he had this cabin."

Ariadne nods. "Yeah, it lacks a feminine touch, that's for sure. Still, it's got heat and food and that's what matters right now."

He turns to look at her, intending to ask some question, but Ariadne slips her cold hand around the back of his neck and pulls his face down to hers, kissing him. It's sweet and tender; Arthur kisses her back, and gives a warm sigh when they break apart.

"Thank you," Ariadne murmurs. "For not making me choose, Arthur. For being willing to share Eames with me. I know it's not easy, but for right now, it's right."

A thousand things flash through his mind right then—objections and agreements and protests and jokes, but in the end, he slowly nods, lost in the earnest, clear-eyed look Ariadne gives him.

They walk back to the cabin, and Ariadne links her arm though his.

Arthur wonders again if this is all a Dream.

And if he really cares at this point.

000ooo000ooo000

The pantry inventory is eye-opening, and Ariadne is amused at how the details pull together and confirm Arthur's initial assessment of the cabin's owner as a single man. There are enough canned goods and staples— sugar, flour, powdered eggs, cooking oil, dehydrated potatoes, rice and vodka—to last a year if they ration it reasonably. Not that they'll be here that long, she prays.

There are the usual sorts of self-reliance tools too—powdered soap flakes, a first aid kit, a small sewing kit, hammers nails, saws, an ax, fishing gear, and an ancient shotgun that Eames declares is of Swedish make, along with a box of cartridges.

One of the better finds is a few oil lamps, along with a two nearly full metal canisters of kerosene, which means trips to the outhouse won't be nearly as difficult after dark. She's cheered by that, but the lack of toilet paper does worry Ariadne.

Upstairs, she prowls around the dresser and armoire, snorting at the nudist magazines, and categorizing the clothing. Laundry, Ariadne sighs to herself, is not going to be fun. There are enough items that they'll all have things to wear for a few days, so the rotation should keep everyone fairly sanitary, if somewhat drab.

Eames will definitely be disappointed in the lack of color, Ariadne giggles to herself.

Downstairs, she peers in all the kitchen cabinets, finding some handy items like a small samovar and canisters of tea among the dishes and pans. Ariadne saves the desk for last, and when she goes through it, she takes her time, working around Arthur, who is prying apart one of the cell phones on the blotter.

The desk contains, among other things, cheap legal pads, old file folders with collections of photos, a paper clipped bundle of bills, matches, keys, postcards that seem to feature the lake outside, and assorted desk junk that includes disintegrating rubber bands, paper clips, pens, pencils and erasers.

Ariadne looks through the bills as Arthur quietly curses under his breath; apparently the light is not quite enough for the delicate work he wants to do. She figures out that some of the bills are water bills, and others are for deliveries—probably wood or groceries. The dates are from roughly four years earlier, and Ariadne can't decipher the signature at all.

There's also a deck of cards tucked way in the back of one drawer, with topless women pattern on the back; when Ariadne shows deck to Arthur, he raises an eyebrow and barely smirks before turning back to the cell phone.

Eames has gone out to the truck, and now he comes in through the kitchen door, stamping to get the snow off his boots, his arms full of items he's scavenged out of the vehicle. Ariadne drifts over to have a look, helping him set things out on the round kitchen table.

There is a map, Ariadne pounces on it; after years of moving from dig to dig with her mother and her excavation crews, she _knows_ her geography, knows how to read a map, oh yes.

Eames knows better than to distract her; he moves around Ariadne, putting away condiments and tucking a stack of frozen dinners into a cardboard box, and stashing them outside the back door in the snow. Ariadne is dimly aware of him putting water in the samovar, lighting the little sterno can under and sitting at the table, waiting patiently.

She looks up at him triumphantly, pushing her hair back behind her ear. "We're near Lake Ladoga."

Ariadne watches Eames draw his brows together, and then shake his head, uncomprehendingly. "Sorry, doesn't mean anything to me, pet."

"Lake Ladoga. North of Saint Petersburg, and within a few hundred miles of Finland, Julian. I can't pinpoint us directly, but from what's here and some supposition on my part, _that's_ about where we are," Ariadne points her finger along a crease of the map.

000ooo000ooo000

To celebrate, Eames attempts baking a cake. It's not difficult really, although the lack of any baking soda makes the end result more of a crumbly biscuit, but he heats more of the honey to drizzle on it, and both Ariadne and Arthur have second servings.

"So, what do we have and what do we need?" he breezily asks as they carry their plates to the sofa in front of the fire.

"We have enough to get by for a while," Arthur replies, "and we _need_ to get out of here when we can. If Ari is right about our location, we could be snowbound until spring. I've got an idea, but it's risky."

Eames waits, his full attention on Arthur, who is looking wonderfully austere in the firelight. There's something about the planes of the point man's face that were meant to be highlighted in flame, Eames thinks as he nods.

"So tell us," Ariadne murmurs, setting her plate down and stretching out to put her feet in Eames' lap. He doesn't mind and pulls her house socks off to rub her toes, which makes her purr a bit.

Arthur points with his chin to the desk. "We call out, without the GPS chip. If we connect, then we put the chip back in."

"And if we _don't _connect?"

"We try again," Arthur sighs. "And again until we _do_ connect. I've got two numbers for Cobb, and I'll try both unless you can think of someone else to contact."

They're all silent for a moment, lost in thought together, while the flames crackle. The wind whistles in a low moan outside as the sun begins to go down. Ames looks from Arthur to Ariadne, noting their somber expressions. "All right then. If we _do_ reach Cobb, what then? He's not exactly in a position to come sweeping through and saving us. Talented yes, I grant you, but he doesn't have infinite resources."

"No, but Saito does," Arthur points out softly.

The room is silent again, but this time there's a sense of hopefulness in the air, reflected in everyone's eyes. Eames realizes then how much he gives a damn about these two, and because of that, he gives a gusty sigh. "All right. But—for the sake of argument—if we _don't_ reach Cobb or Saito . . . what's our backup plan then?"

Arthur works his jaw back and forth for a moment, beard twitching. "Then . . . we wait for spring, and try for Finland."

Eames blinks; again, this is so totally Arthur; ambitious as hell, but doable, with enough planning. Ariadne is laughing now, wiggling her toes as she does so. "C-cross the Finnish line?" she giggles, and that brings a groan from the point man.

"Yes," he mutters. "I'd rather we took our chances with a democracy over a semi-republic with a thug for a prime minister."

"Extradition would be easier," Eames agrees, "And I've always wanted to visit the Nokia factory myself."


	15. Chapter 15

The last day of the year finds Arthur outside, unloading the last of the supplies from the truck. There is in fact, a huge carton of toilet paper, the sight of which brings cheers from Ariadne, who immediately stashes the precious loot in the pantry. Eames has taken it on himself to lug in firewood, so both the kitchen box and the living room box are freshly stocked with fuel.

There's some sunshine, outside, and the call of birds; for the moment all seems well. Arthur is tempted to hike up to the road to see if any tracks are on it, but decides to wait until the next day for that trip. The upward two mile climb won't be fun, he knows, but he feels he should try.

The three of them have agreed to wait until evening to attempt phoning Cobb; nevertheless, Arthur can sense the hidden hope each of them harbors at the thought. To keep himself occupied, Arthur shovels a rough path to the outhouse by dragging the washtub behind him a few times. On the final return to the cabin he stops for a moment and looks around, drinking in the frosty stillness.

It's a pretty place, he thinks absently. Solitude has never bothered Arthur, and the woods remind him of his boyhood in Maine. A young hare pops up and bolts across his path, kicking snow as it zig-zags, and watching it, Arthur grins briefly, thinking that its dark eyes remind him of Ariadne's.

He looks to the lake, and wonders if he dares try any ice fishing.

Inside, Ariadne takes the tub from him. "Thanks. I'm going to attempt some laundry in a bit."

Arthur nods. "Need help?"

"Probably," she agrees. "Eames wants to check out the sauna. Interested?"

Arthur fights a smirk and gives another thoughtful nod instead. "I suppose we'd better keep an eye on him. He didn't react too well to the bats."

Ariadne nods. "Yeah. I don't think Julian's been around animals much in his life. I'm not sure how he'd react to a raccoon or badger."

"I'm not sure they have those here—do they?" Arthur muses, following her into the living room. Eames is snoozing on the sofa, sock-covered feet propped off one end, his eyes closed. He looks comfortable; so Arthur lightly smacks the bottom of one large foot.

Eames flinches and opens his eyes reproachfully. "What was _that_ for?"

"For taking up the whole sofa," Arthur replies. "So what do you actually know about saunas?"

"Ah!" Eames brightens, and shifts. "Had a mate in my school days who was quite mad for them—I think he was Finnish, come to think of it—and he taught me how to do it. Mind you, his hut was a lot more modern, but I'm pretty sure I remember the details." He grins. "The nudity, certainly."

"Yes, I'm sure you remember *that,*" Ariadne murmurs sweetly. "Sure."

"Now, now—be kind, pet; I'm doing all the cooking after all," Eames reminds her. "Best not to antagonize the chef."

"Chef?" Arthur murmurs in a dry, mocking tone. "Chef?"

"Right," Eames points an accusing finger at him, but there's a smirk on his face. "Just for that, _you_ can do the honors tonight, Arthur. We'll see how well _you_ handle a wood stove and no bloody running water."

"Gentlemen-sauna?" Ariadne breaks in, her hands on her hips. "Sometime today?"

It's about the size of a walk-in closet, and smells of dampness, but the wooden floor and benches are in good shape, and the stones piled in front of the fireplace look huge. There are hooks on the ceiling for the lanterns, and a cabinet with old towels, musty but clean. Ariadne sets to work on the fire, while Eames fills a few buckets with clean snow. Arthur supervises; a position that lets him sit and watch.

Eames herds them out once the fire is going, and in the kitchen, he begins to strip, unself-consciously and neatly. "The clothes stay here, nice and dry, right, and we take towels as we need them. Come on, come on—"

00oo00oo00

She loves it. The warmth seeps in deep, and when Eames pours ladles of water over the rocks, they hiss and steam, filling the tiny room with just the sort of heat she savors. Ariadne has her hair tied back and lounges on the highest riser, feeling . . . sacred.

It feels like every bad thing is sweating out of her, off of her, and even the trickles at the back of her neck and along her temples are good. She breathes in the steam and feels knots begin to loosen in her shoulders.

Below, Arthur and Eames are slouched along the wooden benches, both of them as slothful as she is. Arthur has a towel over his lap, but Eames isn't nearly as modest, and is sprawled out nude, fuzzy chin up, sweat running off his chest in long wet rivulets.

Arthur is bent forward, elbows on his thighs, and the lean damp muscles of his back stand out nicely, making Ariadne aware that she's just a bit . . . horny. It's a state that's pretty common, looking at her two men, and Ariadne smothers a smirk, feeling incredibly lucky. Two men, all hers . . . for the duration, anyway. She doesn't want to think too far ahead into the future, but for right now, having both Arthur and Eames is a delicious joy.

She wonders if simply being slightly on edge all the time adds to her arousal; the slight and simmering tension keeping the desire sharp below her belly. Certainly looking at them in the yellow gleam of the lamp is a pleasure, and Ariadne shifts, seeing Eames looking up at her, smiling.

"Julian—" Ariadne murmurs. "Tell me about your tattoos."

He blinks and looks to his right shoulder, and the complicated Celtic design there. "First time I ever Dreamed; thought it was only right to mark the momentous occasion. Bloody complicated maze, that. Had to work it around the mermaid though—she was there first."

Ariadne nods and shifts, coming down from her upper ledge to be closer. She shoots a gaze at his other shoulder, and Eames suddenly looks shy, dropping his head. "That one, well . . . back when I was a teenager, my granny had cancer. She was pretty faithful, and I was dead scared of losing her, so I sort of made a personal promise to the Holy Mother that if she would spare her, I'd wear her image the rest of my days."

"Wow," Ariadne murmurs, reaching out to lightly touch the Madonna's edge.

"It still makes my Granny Jane unbelievably happy," Eames admits with a crooked grin.

"She's . . . still alive?" Arthur asks quietly, and Eames rubs his nose, nodding.

"Eighty-three and still getting around," Eames replies earnestly. "Only one of the family who gives a tinker's damn about me, in fact. And_ that_ one . . ." he continues, and slowly explains the larger designs over his shoulders and torso. Some of the stories are funny, and Ariadne laughs, but there's one—a small pink heart- that Eames has bypassed, and she wonders, but doesn't ask. When he's done, she looks at Arthur, and he shrugs, scratching his beard.

"No tattoos. Scars, but no ink," he tells her with a small grin.

"Scars?" immediately she wants to know, and Arthur rolls his eyes this time. He points to the outside of his right knee and reveals a jagged pink welt just above the cap.

"Gunshot," Eames murmurs, frowning, and Arthur nods.

"Yeah. Healed now, but there's some nerve damage in it," he confesses. "In the worst dreams, I get shot there again and . . ." Arthur trails off, and Ariadne winces. To distract him, she carefully pulls her hair back and finds the thin ridge of scar tissue behind her left ear, tapping it.

"Car accident," She tells them almost cheerfully. "I was sitting in a café in Turkey when a driver rammed it. I had a chunk of glass buried in my skull."

Both men flinch, and now it's Ariadne's turn to shrug. "It didn't go in that far; no dain bramage."

It's an old joke, one she's used often, and by the groans it brings, Ariadne knows it's lightened up the situation once more. She smiles. "I just wear my hair long and it's not really noticeable."

"You could wear it short," Arthur assures her. "You'd still be . . . beautiful."

"Here here," Eames agrees, and she blushes.

00oo00oo00

Eames helps to pour the buckets of water on both Arthur and Ariadne, enjoying the process hugely. They stand on the back porch of the cabin, steaming and pink, all three of them naked and looking sleek as seals.

"Inside, dry off," Eames orders, dousing himself and rubbing his face. The lovely feel of heat is making his skin ruddy, and he's aware that he's semi-hard as well. Ariadne slips past him, brushing her hip against his cock, and he shoots her a mock-warning look, but she laughs. Arthur follows her, giving Eames a sidelong glance that makes him blink.

_Did Arthur ?_ Eames blinks again, and heads into the kitchen, feeling slightly off-kilter. Inside, he finds them both toweling down, looking much more relaxed than they have in days. Ariadne is rubbing her hair dry, and Arthur is tucking his towel in a low kilt around his lean hips.

Eames smiles. "All clean then?"

Ariadne goes on tiptoe to kiss him. "Yes. I definitely _like_ saunas," she murmurs.

Eames rubs her nose with his and straightens up to look impishly at Arthur. "What, no kiss from you?"

He's not prepared when Arthur languorously leans over and does just that, his mouth warm and soft. Eames is so stunned that he drops his towel, and he dimly hears Ariadne chuckling.

Eames doesn't care; the kiss is potent. Arthur pulls back, and stares into Eames' eyes. "Still not gay, but . . . I like kissing," he informs him.

"Bloody hell," Eames weakly murmurs, "so do _I _darling!"

"We . . . don't have to get dressed right away . . ." Ariadne breathes, coming over to Eames and lightly stroking his chest. Eames shivers as lovely sensations of heat and chill race through him, stiffening his cock and leaving him dry-mouthed.

They make their way to the sofa, and Ariadne pushes him down into it, kneeling between his thighs, her talented little fingers and mouth toying with his prick. Eames groans. He doesn't groan long, though, because Arthur leans over and kisses him again, deep and sweet, taking the lead in that quiet, confident way he has.

And Eames goes with it. This bizarre moment has all the elements of a Dream; comfort in a strange and yet lovely situation, but he's not about to analyze anything because God, the two of them making love to _him_ is just what he wants.

It's unreal and lovely but it can't last; the pleasure is so rich and good, cresting long, blissful moments later as Ariadne sucks harder, and when Arthur sinks his teeth into his lower lip, nipping sharply, Eames comes in long, wracking spasms, his hips rising off the cushions as he does.

He slumps, reaching for both of them, pulling them in against him in a damp bear hug, blindly kissing anything he can reach on either of them, both of them: Arthur's chin, Ariadne's hairline, her shoulder, Arthur's cheek. "Oh my darlings, I _adore _the two of you, honestly," Eames sighs, letting his head loll back. "I am utterly _yours_ at this moment!"

"That sounds like a threat," Arthur mutters, but he's giving his cheeky grin as he says it, so Eames forgives him.

"It's more of a bargain, actually," Ariadne muses, licking her lower lip and cuddling up in Eames' bare lap. "Seriously, Arthur, where _else_ are we going to get a chef, dishwasher and sauna manager?"

"And sex toy," Eames murmurs, batting his eyes shamelessly. "I've got skills I haven't even brought out yet, you know."

It amuses him to see Arthur, still in his towel, blush. "I knew kissing you was a bad idea," he grumbles, but Eames merely smiles.

"You know you're adorable when you lie, darling. Your eyes may say 'no' but your lips and that tenting under your towel disagree."

Arthur tries to protest, but Ariadne is shifting, moving from Eames' lap to Arthur's, shifting his towel away as the fire flickers and crackles and the thin sun begins to set.

Eames watches.


	16. Chapter 16

There are two cell phones. Three, actually, but one is dead, and un-chargeable. The other two are still working, but won't last for more than a week by Arthur's estimation. They're in his hands now, and he's managed to enter Cobb's number on both of them for storage.

The GPS chips were tricky; one came out easily, from the phone he took from the Hulk, but the other phone—Rossiter's phone—is a fancier model, and the chip is buried under delicate circuitry. Arthur doesn't want to risk losing the phone just to dig it out. Consequently, they're dialing on Hulk's phone first.

It's quiet in the living room. Ariadne and Eames are on the sofa, watching with anxious eyes, and Arthur is at the desk, paper and pen handy as he dials. He's tense as hell, aware of how damned much is riding on this call.

It rings. Arthur thumbs up the volume, holding the phone so that the sound carries. He doesn't dare look towards the sofa, and concentrates instead on what to say. It rings a second time, and right after the second ring, someone picks up.

"Hello?" The voice is cautious, annoyed and definitely, absolutely Dominic Cobb.

"Dom, it's me," Arthur barks. "Save this number. Oh, and just so you _know_ it's me, let me remind you that Tsingtao is the shittiest beer in the world to throw up after bad dim sum."

"Arthur!" the return roar is so loud that it carries through the cabin, the tinny words filled with relief. "Jesus! Where the hell ARE you? Where are Eames and Ariadne?"

"Lake Ladoga," Arthur replies, fighting the urge to waste time with more words than needed. "Net Room sold us out to the Russian Mafia. At the moment, we're holed up and safe, but I don't know how long that will last. We need the works, Dom, and we need it fast."

Arthur feels his spine begin to relax; the sheer relief of hearing Cobb's voice is so good it's almost painful. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ariadne and Eames hugging each other, both of them staring his way.

"Okay. You and Eames I can handle; Ari might be harder, but we'll do what we can. Christ! Do you have any idea how _worried_ I've been?"

"Yes," Arthur shoots back succinctly. "Listen, this phone won't last long. Got something to write with?"

Dom takes down the details Arthur feeds him; information to retrieve spare passports and other ID, and after that, Arthur motions to the others to come over and prove their existence to Dom.

"Okay," Dom assures them, his voice strong and reassuring. "I'll be on it. Ladoga. Shit—this isn't going to be easy."

"Not like we had a choice, darling," Eames drawls lightly. "Give our best to Saito-san."

"The south end of Lake Ladoga," Ariadne tells him. "A few kilometers off a major road, I think. Be careful."

"_You _be careful," Cobb shoots back. "When you three disappeared, it spooked a lot of the other teams; damned near everyone went deeper under. Okay, got work to do—save the battery, I'll get back to you ASAP when I've got something solid. You three watch out for each other—I know you've been doing it so far, but I'm serious. Stay safe."

The connection cuts, and Arthur prudently turns the phone off.

It's hard to do it though. Damned hard.

Ariadne wraps herself around him in a tight hug, and Eames comes up behind both of them, adding his arms to the squeeze. For a long moment all three of them cling to each other, each of them trying desperately to hold back a surge of emotion that threatens to overwhelm them all.

That's when Arthur knows _exactly_ how much he cares for Ariadne and Eames.

000ooo000ooo000

When Ariadne breaks out the vodka, neither Eames nor Arthur refuse, and after a dinner of canned bean soup and canned carrots, she pours them glasses and sips on hers. The fumes alone could knock her out, but the heated streak it leaves inside her throat is worth it, and Ariadne enjoys it all more for that.

Eames tells them a few funny stories, most of them centered on vodka mishaps, and Arthur quietly drinks, not saying much, but smiling more than he has in a long time. Ariadne is stretched out, with her head in Eames' lap and her feet in Arthur's; _it's good to be the princess_, she thinks, and snickers.

"So, what's a beautiful woman like you doing out free and wild, pet?" Eames asks her. "Surely you've broken a few hearts in your time?"

A glib answer comes to mind, but Ariadne dismisses it and goes for honesty. "A few," she admits forthrightly. "Including the man who encouraged me to go to school to quote, 'get it out of my system' unquote. He told me he was perfectly willing to wait for me to finish my degree before marrying me and taking me away from the hardship of working for a living."

"Oh dear," Eames murmurs. "I hope you sent that bastard packing with a boot to the arse."

"Sounds like a pompous jerk," Arthur agrees firmly.

Ariadne sighs. "He was. I had the engagement ring for all of three minutes before handing it back to him, and even _then_ he didn't believe me."

"Affianced? You were semi-affianced?" Eames teases. "Oh I _knew_ you were forbidden fruit, darling."

"My idiot detector was off-line in those days," Ariadne mutters, blushing a bit. "And it was a nice ring; I was weak."

"We'll just have to get you something nicer," Eames assures her. "I'm sure Arthur and I can out-bling any parasitic amoeba from your past."

Ariadne laughs softly. "I wasn't fishing for anything, Julian, seriously." She's touched and amused by his offer, and suspects he's sincere—a rarity for the forger.

"Something in gold," Arthur agrees, taking another swallow of vodka. "With sapphires and amethysts and pearls."

"Mmm," Eames agrees. "All traditional stones associated with dreaming; I approve. We'll get three rings done my pets, and to hell with convention."

Ariadne laughs delightedly, and pulls Eames' face down to kiss him before murmuring, "You're an incorrigible flirt, you know that, right?"

"I'm the flirt, Arthur's the romantic," Eames tells her sweetly. "That makes you the head of the household, nominally."

"Is that so?" Ariadne is delighted. She lifts one foot to touch Arthur's fuzzy chin, and he catches it, kisses it. "Arthur?"

He shoots her one of his quiet smiles, and she can tell he's definitely feeling mellow now. "You started as an architect and . . ." Arthur waves the hand holding his glass, "you made a home. You made _us_ into a home. That means you're qualified to run it, Ari. And I'm pretty sure . . . I've had enough vodka."

Ariadne giggles again. "We all probably have, but it's good. I love you, Arthur. And I love you, Julian," she blurts, tensing because it's something she's thought and felt but hasn't come out and said before. A big risk, and one that might ruin the moment; despite the banter, the here and now is about survival, not domestication.

"Oh darling," Eames breathes, but Arthur is the one to speak up.

"Yes," he murmurs. "We love you too."

She rises up off of their laps and slings an arm around each man's neck, pulling them close and kissing them, blinking away tears. "Okay," Ariadne sniffles, "So that makes it—official. We're . . . ."

But she can't finish; the emotion is finally too much, and Ariadne begins to sob. Both Eames and Arthur lean into her, murmuring soothing endearments followed by vodka-tinted kisses, and there's nothing sexual about it; just comforting whispers and the warm security of the two of them holding her.

Ariadne has never been a touchy-feely sort of person; her size has made her defensive against potential caretakers for most of her life. It's different with her lovers here, though. Both Eames and Arthur know her, and know her well. They've been there through her moods and have learned her ways. And they love her just the same—this is what brings more tears, although now they're in response to the quiet relief she feels.

She can't blame it on the vodka, although it helped. No, this has been a while in coming, and Ariadne lets herself be swept up in this oddly perfect love, this triangle of three lonely souls that mesh.

000ooo000ooo000

There is more snow in the morning, and Eames doesn't want to get out of bed. His head is throbbing a bit, and his bladder insists on relief, so with a grumble, he climbs out, pulling on the pants draped on the end of the bed. In it, Ariadne is but a small lump under the covers, curled around Arthur's back.

Eames can't help shooting them a smirk; he knows they're awake, and will probably be all over each other by the time he gets back from the outhouse, and that's all right too. Both he and Arthur deserve private time with Ariadne as well, and given how small the cabin is, this will work fine. He lumbers down the stairs and kindles up the fires, better at it now than he used to be.

He whistles, heading out in the light, sugary fall of snow, feeling pleased despite the cold. Eames hasn't felt this peaceful in ages; certainly not since Charlotte died, that's for certain. The private memory of his young daughter rises in his thoughts, and Eames feels the familiar prickle of grief, but it's muted both by time, and the unexpected thought that both Arthur and Ariadne would have loved his toddler.

Trudging on, Eames reaches the outhouse and barges in, taking care of the business at hand as quickly as the chill permits him. He shoots a wary look overhead, but the bats show no signs of voyeurism for which he is grateful. Afterwards, he steps out and looks through the trees towards the lake, noting how grey and flat it is.

_Trout. Trout or bream would be good_, he thinks, and wonders if either Arthur or Ariadne knows how to ice fish. Eames imagines dredging fillets in flour and frying them up; it's enough to make his stomach rumble and he sets out to get back to the cabin.

Three steps and he feels a prickle along the back of his neck. Turning, Eames looks around the ghostly grey trees, trying to see what has him spooked. Nothing is visible, but the sensation doesn't end, and Eames stays still.

Nothing. The woods look more ominous though, and Eames makes his way back to the cabin more quickly, feeling alert. He looks to the sky, but there's nothing there, just snow lightly falling. Underfoot, he stumbles a bit, and hurries on, listening carefully.

When a rabbit shoots out across his path, Eames curses, watching it go with a sense of annoyance and relief. It zigzags off, kicking up snow, and he turns back, the cabin now in sight, feeling his pulse begin to drop. Carefully he climbs up the steps, and something, some odd little noise; the click of nails makes him look over his shoulder.

"Bloody fucking HELL!" Eames roars and yanks open the kitchen door, slamming it behind him and leaning against it, pulse back to jackhammer level. Upstairs the creaking of the bed ceases, and feet hit the floor.

"Eames?" Arthur is halfway down the stairs in a crouch, gun in hand, stark naked.

"Jesus, there's a bloody fucking _wolf_ on the back porch!" Eames announces. "It bloody fucking followed me back from the loo!"

Arthur straightens up and moves into the kitchen, peering out the window over the sink. Eames watches him, feeling a rush of lust on top of his fear, and the sensation makes him want to growl.

"I don't see anything," Arthur announces, and glances at Eames, who looks up guiltily.

"It was right _there_ mate, on the porch, big as life!" Eames insists. "A huge bloody thing!"

Arthur moves to the door and tugs it open; there are tracks on the porch—Eames' boots, and a few other prints that stand out against the snow.

Paw prints.

Eames looks around, searching quickly for any sign of the beast, pushing Arthur back inside, "You'll freeze, darling," and spots nothing, even as he moves along the width of the porch. He turns just in time to see a flash of black moving past; turning, Eames pushes inside to see Arthur, gun cocked and pointed.

Ariadne is down the stairs, wearing only a shirt, and she steps into the kitchen, then kneels down. "Oh my God, he's _adorable_!"

The small, skinny puppy feebly wags its tail and rolls over, offering up a snow-crusted belly as it whimpers.


	17. Chapter 17

It's not easy to amuse Arthur; he knows his sense of humor is a bit on the dry side most of the time, but Eames versus the puppy is good for a snicker, easily. Arthur understands that not everyone has owned dogs in their lives, but Eames' discomfort is palpable.

The puppy however, with the unerring instincts of all small and eager to please creatures is making a concerted effort to win over the Englishman, and watching the process is funny as hell for both Arthur and Ariadne.

It's probably because Eames does the cooking, and the scent of food is most apparent on him, but the puppy likes to follow Eames around, a few steps behind him, watching and waiting. Eames of course, complains about being stalked, and constantly turns to check.

There is a bit of wear around the puppy's ruff, as if a collar used to be there, and Arthur is sure that this little fellow is someone's lost or runaway pet; he's housebroken and certainly loving. After a good toweling down by Ariadne and devouring a bowl of scrambled eggs, the puppy settles in by the fire and proceeds to sleep as the three of them debate on whether or not he will stay.

"He's a bloody wolf in miniature, and another mouth—a fanged one—to feed," Eames mutters, still a bit pink-cheeked over his earlier outburst.

"Julian, he's a _puppy_," Ariadne points out softly. "Look at the curl of that tail; no wolf ever had a tail like that. He's not very old either; probably just a year if that much."

"He's a dog," Arthur agrees, "but Eames is right—it does mean one more to feed, and I don't think he's going to last on dehydrated eggs and potatoes for very long."

"You'd be surprised," Ariadne counters. "Look, I've been around a lot of dogs in my life. Almost every dig my mother ran had guard dogs, or sometimes the diggers and students brought their pets. They'll eat damned near anything we will, and given his size, this puppy isn't going to make a dent in our supplies just yet."

"Fine," Eames sulks, "but what do we _need_ him for? It's not as if he can chop wood or cook, love. I hate to be pragmatic, but this IS a matter of survival here, if you don't remember."

"He'll alert us to anything coming our way," Arthur offers up quietly. "His sense of hearing is better than ours, and we could use the early warning around here."

For a moment Eames is silent. Arthur whistles and the puppy pricks his ears and trots over, delighted to be petted and stroked. He's a lovely dog, shaggy-furred with a dark coat and heavy ruff around his neck; some breed well-adapted to snow and ice, but small; barely past Arthur's knee in height. Ariadne of course, loves him, and the feeling is mutual; puppy's tail wags, and he settles near her.

Arthur runs his hands over the puppy's frame carefully; he's extremely thin, and under all the fur, and his ribs are evident to Arthur's fingers, but there are no injuries or sores. Once he's done the puppy licks his hand.

"He'll need a name," Arthur points out, and leaves it at that.

Later that day, the puppy goes with him to the outhouse; Arthur is amused that the little fellow is determined to mark every tree on the route, and tags along to Arthur's right, snuffling through the snow. They reach the building and of course the puppy wants to go inside as well. Arthur lets him; why not?

Afterwards they head back, having bonded for the moment, and when Arthur spots a rabbit, he waits to see what the puppy will do. The puppy quivers, clearly aware of the prey, his little body tense and ready. Arthur murmurs softly. "Go get him."

Puppy explodes, bounding forward, kicking up snow as he plows forward, chasing after the startled rabbit across the hilly ground. Arthur watches, shaking his head and trying not to laugh; clearly this is NO hunting dog, not by a long shot. The puppy returns after three minutes, winded and cheerful and rabbit-less. Arthur pets him and they head back to the cabin together in good spirits.

Arthur remembers the dogs in his past: Smoke, his grandparent's ancient and dignified Labrador, who met him at the mailbox everyday when the school bus pulled up and Maisie, his aunt's giddy teacup poodle who thought she was a Rottweiler. Both of them were dogs with character and charm, and Arthur appreciated the way they helped fill part of his lonely childhood with companionship and comfort. The life he's leading now doesn't lend itself well to dogs, but Arthur has always imagined that after he retires from Extractions, he'd buy a house near the woods or a beach, and own a dog himself.

And someone to love.

He smirks, realizing that he's let himself in for double the commitment. Life right now, Arthur decides, is rolling a pair of dice and coming up with thirteen.

Fourteen, if you count the dog.

The puppy shakes off on the porch and scampers inside once Arthur opens the door; Arthur follows, to find the living room filled with the scent of hot water and soap. Laundry, he surmises, watching Ariadne stirring the tub and Eames wringing out articles of clothing before draping them on the improvised line strung from one of the posts to the window latch of the front door window.

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne hates laundry, _hates_ it with a passion, which is why she's good at it. She's learned from years of primitive facilities at her mother's archeological digs exactly how to get through hellish chore in under an hour, and has shown Eames how to wring everything thoroughly to help speed the drying process.

She's stripped to the waist for efficiency, and is well-aware of Eames' smutty glances. "Laundry first," Ariadne tells him firmly. "There's a time and a place for everything, and right now, we need clean clothes."

"Tell me, do you do _all_ housework au naturale? Because it's an incredibly enticing look, pet."

She shakes her head and twists one of the sauna towels a bit, then hands it to Eames, who does the same and gets three quarters more water out of it. "God, no—if this was anyplace but here, I'd be in a bathing suit or tee-shirt. But," Ariadne reminds him, "we don't have enough clothing as it is, and I can always take a sauna afterwards."

The puppy comes in, sniffs the laundry water, drinks a little of it, sneezes and wags his tail. Ariadne laughs.

Eames grumbles. "_That_ does nothing to improve my assessment of your supposed intelligence," he informs the puppy, who settles in before the fire.

Ariadne looks at Arthur, who is moving over to help pour more hot water into the tub. "He stayed with you?"

"The entire time," Arthur reports. "Except for when I let him chase a rabbit."

"Hunter then?" Eames asks, but Ariadne watches Arthur shake his head as he eyes her half-nudity speculatively.

"The intent is there, but the follow-through is missing," he tells them. "The tyro is a little dash-happy when it comes to chasing bunnies."

"Tyro," Ariadne echoes, blushing at Arthur's frank stare. "That works. I like it; what do you think?"

"As a name? I've heard worse," Arthur replies, giving a shirt a ruthlessly hard twist and forcing a huge slosh of water back into the tub.

She looks at Eames, who elegantly shrugs. "Don't ask me; I've no experience with naming dogs."

Ariadne squats down and obligingly the puppy comes over, tail wagging. She addresses him directly. "Tyro? Tyro?"

His tail wags faster, and he goes to lick her bare toes, his tongue hot and rough and wet. Ariadne giggles because it tickles. She looks up at both men and nods. "Tyro it is."

Later, after they dump the last of the laundry water outside and fire up the sauna, Ariadne spends time rubbing shoulders; first Eames' and then Arthur's, enjoying the feel of powerful muscles in her hands. They've all lost weight, but nobody's sick or injured and for that she's grateful.

Now it's a waiting game for the three of them, compounded by the uncertainties of weather and the limited supplies, but for the moment . . .

Arthur turns to her, half-smiling in the dim light of the sauna. "So-this morning . . . where were we?"

She blushes, but Arthur bends to kiss her knees, lightly nudging them apart, letting his bearded chin tickle as his lips move along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. It's a little awkward on the wooden planks, but Eames pushes another towel under her ass and kisses her teasingly, bending over to smile against her skin.

Ariadne gives herself over to Arthur's succulent devouring; he's ruthlessly good at orality, remembering not to scrape her with his beard while at the same time, thoroughly enjoying himself.

She can tell that because his groans are muffled against her thighs, and the hot flick of Arthur's tongue slithers everywhere between them in a slippery dance of lust. Eames might have the pretty mouth; Arthur's got the talented one, and in a few minutes, Ariadne finds herself breathing hard, stomach tightening in that sweet relentless tension prior to a really hard orgasm.

She comes; it rolls through her body in shaky waves of heavy honey pleasure, making Ariadne cry out in delight even as Arthur presses the flat of his tongue against her throbbing bud and Eames lightly brushes his beard against her hard, hard nipples. The sensation is glorious and primitive and Ariadne knows that as long as she lives she'll remember this moment; frame it in her mind in the dim light and steam and musk of the men she loves.

Tears slip out, mingling with sweat, but she doesn't mind.

000ooo000ooo000

Making love on a bed is right and proper and comfortable; Eames has appreciated a lot of beds in his time. But there's something in his nature that relishes the spontaneity of lustful union away from mattresses and box springs. He's had sex in a variety of interesting places, from practically every point in a vehicle (often while it was moving) to various outdoor settings, public places and dangerous sites, all enhanced by thrill of the unconventional surroundings not to mention potential discovery.

Here in the sauna though, the thrill is heightened by the company, the scent and the sounds, and Eames is so hard he aches. Tasting the rest of Ariadne's lithe little body while Arthur devours the peach of her cleft is delicious porn; a private show he can participate in, and does. With care, Eames waits until Ariadne is limp and laughing softly, her petite frame sprawled on the wooden bench before reaching down to curl a hand around his thickly veined shaft.

She looks up through her lashes at him, smiling, her dimples showing. "Hi there. Is that for me?"

Eames preens for a moment. "That could be arranged, darling."

Ariadne sits up and moves to kiss Arthur, reaching down to touch his prick, murmuring softly to him. Arthur cups her face and shakes his head, but in amusement, not denial. She looks up at Eames.

"Since Arthur was so good to me," she blushes, "I'm returning the favor, but I don't want to leave you out . . ."

Eames draws in a shuddery breath as a fresh surge of arousal spikes through him. Ariadne rises up on her hands and knees along the length of the bench and sweetly presents herself to him, looking over her shoulder and nodding.

The stuff of fantasy, Eames realizes and moves closer, running a hand up the inside of one of her thighs. It's wet from Arthur's licking and her own climax, and he bends to kiss her pert bottom, distracting her as she nuzzles Arthur.

But not for long. Eames slides himself into her cleft, the sweet slick squeeze nearly enough to make him come right then and there. He cups her small hips and takes a breath, then looks up.

Christ! The beautiful, _unreal_ sight of naked, shaggy Arthur, eyes closed, gently stroking Ariadne's hair as she slips her mouth over the head of his cock is damned near enough to set Eames off, but he grits his teeth and resists, moving slowly, gently.

After a few awkward moments they fall into a rhythm, steady and slow; full of trust. The nervous laughs of a moment before fade, and the sauna is full of gasps and groans and creaking wood. Eames can't concentrate, can't draw out the pleasure because every time he opens his eyes, the images of his lovers sear into his brain.

Arthur tenses and arches, his long fingers winding in Ariadne's hair as he comes, thrusting raggedly. Eames savors the vision, and feels his own orgasm surging forward. He slows; leans forward to reach around Ariadne's hip and gently stroke his fingers against her vulva.

She coughs a little, swallows, grinds against his hand and as his climax rockets through him, Eames feels Ariadne's slick body clench around him spasmodically.

His sense of pride makes his orgasm all the more wonderful, and Eames manages _not_ to collapse on Ariadne, but his legs are wobbly, so he braces his arms around her on either side and grips the bench. Arthur gracelessly slumps on the end of the bench, breathing hard in the humid air.

"Jesus," he growls, brushing his bangs back and Eames can see he's trembling. "I can't believe . . ."

" . . . that Ariadne loves us this much?" Eames purrs quietly, licking her shoulder as he slowly and wetly pulls out. She's flushed again, her eyes slightly unfocused. "I'm having some trouble with it myself," Eames admits. "Nobody's ever . . . taken me for what I am this way before. Let me love without compromise. Nobody's _given_ themselves to me this way. Thank you, sweethearts," he finds his voice, although husky, is shaky.

Arthur scoots forward, pulls Ariadne to him, kisses her entire damp face. He moves down her shoulder, and then to Eames' hand resting on it, kissing that as well.

"You two," he gruffly confesses looking from Ariadne to Eames, "are . . . amazing. And addictive."

Eames helps both of them up, and kisses their foreheads. "So be it; now let's get dried and dressed before that animal in the living room starts widdling on things."


	18. Chapter 18

The first argument is mild, but a disagreement nonetheless; Arthur wants to hike up to the road, and both Eames and Ariadne are dead set against letting him. There is no yelling, no flaring of tempers, but Arthur is suddenly reminded that both of his lovers can be very stubborn people.

It's not news, but it's disconcerting to have them present a united front against him.

"It's less than two miles," he points out. "We need to know more about where we are, and what access Cobb will need."

"No," Ariadne tells him. "Arthur, we were lucky getting here without being seen; Tyro is proof enough that there are people around here, and we can't risk _losing_ you."

"You won't; it's less than four miles round trip," Arthur argues back. "I'll be armed and more than capable of taking care of myself."

"And just how to you propose to find your way?" Eames drawls, his tone mild but his gaze concerned. "Since we've been here it's been snowing on and off for ages, Arthur. The three of us are lucky to have a path to the lavvy, let alone the road we came in on. Yes, you can orient yourself to the lake, but once you get beyond the first hill, it may not be visible from that vantage point. You've no idea how long it will take you to get there, what you'll find there, and how long it will take to get back."

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, trying to be patient. He runs a hand through his loose, shaggy hair and looks from Ariadne to Eames. "Be reasonable. I'm the only one with any experience hiking in snow—_distance_ experience," he reminds Ariadne, who looks mutinous. "I will take the dog with me, I'll be armed, and I'll make it back without tiring myself out or coming to harm. We need some point of reference for Cobb, and we need to get it while the weather holds."

He watches Ariadne and Eames exchange glances, and although they don't speak, some sense of agreement transfers across the room, and both of them turn back to him, bookends of reluctant agreement.

"_If _you take Tyro," Ariadne murmurs.

"_If_ you take one of the cell phones," Eames adds.

Arthur rises up, too smart to let his smugness show. "All right. Help me get ready." He knows they'll need to do that; to touch him to assure themselves that he's as prepared as they can make him before he heads out.

The air holds dampness from the lake, and the snow underfoot has a crust that shapes his footsteps. Tyro bounds, punching holes in it with every leap, his enthusiasm apparent. Arthur smiles briefly, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of Rossiter's parka and looking up the vague outline of the road. Only the row of leafless trees give any clue where it runs, and Arthur starts out, glad that Eames is letting him use the felt boots.

He and Tyro trudge on, and the slope of the road rises. Arthur remembers how steep it was coming down, how tense they all were—was it really only a little more than two weeks earlier?

Arthur turns and looks back, noting the footprints, and from his vantage point, it's hard to see the cabin unless you know where to look. Once again, he suspects that the owner was a very private man, who guarded his dacha well. Tyro veers off, sniffing along the snow, his tail wagging, and Arthur reluctantly shifts away, looking up towards the road, feeling his breath puff out in white with ever exhalation.

After an hour and a half, Arthur reaches the final few yards that lead up to the main road. He listens carefully, but so far hasn't heard anything beyond the calling of a few birds and Tyro's snuffles and yips. There are a few lonely gusts too, through the trees, but other than that, everything is still. He steps up, feeling the frozen gravel under the snow and looks up the highway and then down it.

There are a few old impressions of tires, but nothing fresh; certainly nothing from after the last snowfall. The road is empty, trailing from the flat low horizon in misty grey on his left to the beginning of thick, dark trees far off to his right. Arthur moves to the stump of the decapitated mail box and digs for it under the snow. The metal box is cold and rusted shut. Out of curiosity, Arthur pries it open, yanking the flap open with a squeal of metal on metal.

Disintegrating newspapers are inside, along with two stained and wrinkled letters that Arthur eyes curiously. The Cyrillic he doesn't understand, but the address on each . . . those are numbers, and he realizes that if he can get that information to Cobb, then rescue is just that much closer.

Arthur gives a nod of satisfaction, and pockets them, then buries the box in the snow once more. With a last look at the desolate landscape, he whistles, and Tyro bounds over, bright-eyed and eager.

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne tries to draw. After Arthur leaves, she and Eames move to do different things, each aware of a need for some space. Eames goes to chop firewood, and she can hear the sounds outside; his grunts and 'thunk' of the axe as it hits wood. She can tell how worried Eames is; the percussion of his frustration is apparent with every stroke.

She's not much better herself. The limited supply of paper lies before her, and although Ariadne has made a preliminary sketch of a house, her heart's not in it, and without a straight edge, she knows her proportions are off. The pen is old and the ink in it isn't flowing in the cold; with a growl, Ariadne throws it down and rubs her eyes.

It's time to get out of the cabin, she thinks, and with that in mind, Ariadne pulls on one of the coats from the armoire and goes to find Eames.

He's red-faced and sweaty, in shirtsleeves despite the chill. When Ariadne calls him over, Eames wipes his face with one forearm, then gives her a wry grin. "For the record, I detest manual labor."

"Let's go fishing," Ariadne offers, and Eames blinks at her, then turns to gaze towards the lake.

"Certainly. Do you have some clever plan for getting through the ice out there? C-4 perhaps, or were you just going to drive the truck on it?"

"Rocks," Ariadne snickers. "We'll stand on the pier and drop them until it cracks."

"Sophisticated," Eames chuckles back. "Yes, nothing primitive about that. All right then-and do you _know _how to fish?"

Ariadne nods, and Eames beams. "Oh good. I was hoping one of us would. All right then. Let's see what mischief we can get into then, darling."

Half an hour later, she stands shivering on the iced-over pier, trying to bait the hook with bits of meat from a hastily opened can of chicken noodle soup. Eames has hauled several large rocks down to the end of the small pier and stands prepared to drop them at her command. His nose is red but his expression is amused.

"Almost ready," she assures him, trying to sound confident. In truth, it's been a very long time since Ariadne's fished, and although the rod is in good condition, it's heavy and hard to hold.

"So this is Lake Ladoga," Eames murmurs, looking out over the vast expanse of water. "Rather large."

"Huge," Ariadne amends, and nods to the ice below the pier they're standing on. "Go ahead and chuck one in."

Eames makes a show of it, and the ice breaks under the plummeting slab of granite, opening a hole and sending radiating cracks all around it. Ariadne smiles, spits on the bait and drops the line in the dark water.

Long, cold minutes pass. Eames shuffles a little, hands deep in his pockets. "Yes. Having a jolly good time," he mutters as Ariadne shoots him a quelling look.

"This might take—" she doesn't finish because the line goes taut and the rod bends in a hard quick bob, the tip bending forward. Ariadne tightens her grip as adrenaline surges through her. She tugs, setting the hook, and the reel gear makes a zinging sound.

Eames grins. "I think something bit, darling! Reel it in, let's have a look!"

Ariadne carefully cranks the reel and works the end of the line up; the fish appears, dancing on the end of the line and it's not huge, but it's not small either. She swings it up onto the pier and it flops wetly, making both of them jump a bit.

"Bother, we didn't bring anything to put it in," Eames grouses. "I suppose this means some sacrifice . . ." So saying, he undoes his coat, pulls off his shirt and drops it on the fish.

"Are you NUTS?" Ariadne squeals, but she can't help grinning. Eames half-naked is a glorious sight. He quickly pulls the coat back on, fumbling with the buttons even as he lightly braces one foot on the tail of the fish under the shirt.

"I've been accused of it before. Drop the line in again, let's have another."

It's a while before the next bite, and Ariadne loses bait a few times, but in the end they have good-sized fish-certainly enough to eat well, as Eames promises. He carries the bundle gingerly as they head back, and Ariadne totes the fishing pole.

Once there, Eames cleans the fish. "This," he assures Ariadne, "I can do. Had a girlfriend once who cooked for one of the uptrend places in Bangkok; she showed me everything about filleting . . . among other things," he grins. "I'll have this ready to fry up the minute Arthur walks through the front door."

She's exhilarated; they will have fresh food with dinner, and given Eames' talent, it will be good.

000ooo000ooo000

He tries to hide it; and the distractions of preparing and cooking work well for the first few hours. When Arthur returns, it's a joyful reunion, and part of that comes from Arthur playfully kissing both of them.

"Honeys, I'm home," he intones in a deadpan tone as he shrugs out of the parka and proceeds to dip Ariadne gracefully, kissing her on the rise.

Tyro bounces around, feeling pleased with himself and generally getting underfoot, but when Arthur catches Eames' bristly chin and kisses _him,_ he nearly trips over the puppy in surprise.

"Spontaneous affection! Quick, my totem," Eames murmurs, feeling slightly dizzy. Arthur arches an eyebrow, but he manages a small smile.

"Can't promise we're in reality, but you've got a sexy mouth, so what the hell," Arthur replies. "By the way, you smell like . . . fish."

"Yes," Eames replies. "The plucky pixie and I had an adventure at the pier. Shall we swap stories over pan-fried bream and rice, washed down with Tang?"

This is what they do; the delicious smell fills the cabin, and by the time he brings the frying pan to the table to scoop out crispy sizzling fillets, Ariadne is applauding.

They eat. Arthur manages three fillets and Ariadne makes her way though one and a half. Eames tries to eat, but after a few bites he concentrates instead on Arthur's report about the road.

They all agree that taking a photo of the letters and sending it to Cobb is a good idea, and Ariadne suggests texting the address as well, just to be doubly insured. While all of this talk is going on, Eames slips pieces of fish under the table, where Tyro is eagerly eating them. It's an odd pleasure to feel how happy the puppy is; the 'thump' of his tail is loud.

"Julian?" Ariadne is looking at him with concern, and Eames blinks a little. She reaches one hand over to touch his face, and her fingers are cold. "God, you're burning up!"

"Just a bit warm in here," Eames protests weakly, but even as he does so, he knows it's not going to fly. She looks at Arthur, who's already up and going for the first aid kit.

It's been years since Eames had a thermometer under his tongue; even the witch back with Rossiter used one of the modern ear temperature gauges, but now he's lying on the sofa, glass tube in his mouth as Ariadne drapes a blanket on him. Eames wants to protest, but he's too tired to do more than roll his eyes at her. She's muttering to herself; chiding herself for their fishing, and Eames shakes his head, but Arthur squats down and catches his shoulders.

"Hey, you keep still," he murmurs quietly. Eames stops struggling and lies back. When Arthur slides the thermometer out and checks it, Eames watches as the point man's mouth tightens. He passes the thermometer to Ariadne, who takes it gingerly, reads it, and swabs it with alcohol.

"You've got a fever," she tells Eames. "A hundred and three. Damn it, I never should have let you take off your shirt out there!"

At this, Arthur's expression darkens, but Eames snags his wrist.

"_Not_ her fault," he mutters. "And I did spend the morning outside chopping wood."

Arthur looks like he wants to yell, but instead he draws a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. "Fine. But we need to get your fever down. Let's see what we've got in the box."

There is a bottle of generic aspirin and with both of his lovers watching like hawks, Eames downs two tablets following it with a glass of water. The water is good, and he drinks more, then settles down, suddenly very tired.

Eames drifts into a dream, and everything in it is strange and stretched. He looks for Ariadne and Arthur, but they're always just in the next room, just out of sight around a corner or up the stairs. He can hear them but he can't see them, and the growing panic of _being alone, beingalonebeingALONE_ grows until his own thudding heart wakes him up in the dull glow of the banked fire.

Eames looks around, his head throbbing.

Ariadne is in the armchair, curled in a ball. Arthur is stretched out on the floor, Tyro next to his hip.

They didn't leave him, he realizes. He's _not_ alone.

Eames squeezes his eyes closed again, fighting back the sudden wetness in his eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

When Arthur wakes up, he's stiff; he's gotten used to beds again not floors, but the dog has kept him warm, and the banked fire is easily brought back to life.

He checks on Eames, bending over him and feeling his forehead gently. It's still warm, but seemingly not as much. Eames' eyes open and they're slightly dazed.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asks softly. "Sleep okay?"

"You two should have gone up to bed," Eames chides in a croaky whisper. "At this rate you're both going to get this."

Arthur shrugs. "It's too late; we've been exposed as it is. You need another dose of aspirin and some water."

Eames nods and closes his eyes. Arthur and the puppy move quietly, fetching the medicine and returning, handing it to Eames.

Tyro whines, and wants to jump up on the sofa, but Arthur discourages him. Smiling, Eames reaches down, and the puppy enthusiastically licks his fingers, then settles down within reach.

"You're winning me over," Eames tells the puppy mildly. Then to Arthur he adds, "Thank you, pet. I'm damned sorry about this."

Arthur gazes at Eames for a moment. "You didn't do it on purpose, and I'm not just talking about getting sick, Julian. This . . . relationship," he waves a hand towards the sleeping figure of Ariadne and sweeps it to include himself and Eames, "is . . . unique. It's like Dreaming; at first view it seems distorted, but after a while it becomes your new reality, and when you get comfortable in it, you can start stretching the boundaries and taking yourself to places you never thought you could . . . or would."

He feels his face go red; the analogy sounds odd, but then Eames hasn't stop staring at him.

"I love you too, darling," the Englishman murmurs, and closes his eyes, still smiling.

Arthur waits a moment, then smiles crookedly and moves into the kitchen, wondering what the hell he's going to make for breakfast.

It's a quiet day. Arthur takes photos of the letters, then sends them to Cobb, along with a quick shot of all three of them, just for verification. The cell phone battery is low, and Arthur crosses his fingers that there's still enough juice to get the information through. Ariadne takes Tyro for a quick walk to the outhouse and down to the pier, just to keep herself from fussing over Eames.

Arthur can tell she feels guilty for his fever, and he knows no matter what either he or Eames say, she'll still hold herself at least partially responsible. Hell, he'd feel the same way himself, Arthur realizes. They care about each other enough now to assume some of that duty.

Eames doesn't want anything to eat, but he drinks water at their urging. His fever is still up, and it's strange to see his face so pale and the glitter in his gaze. Even Tyro is subdued, and comes to lie near the sofa, sensing the concern in the room. Arthur considers the dog to be smart; intuitive at the very least, and that's one bright spot.

Later in the day, he takes out some of the refuse, storing it in plastic bags in the truck. The three of them brainstormed what to do with the packaging and waste, not wanting to attract scavengers. Eames was the one to think of storing the non-organic trash in the truck, pointing out that the temperature and the steel doors would keep anything from getting inside. Ariadne sorts through what could be used for fishing bait beforehand, but the rest of it is definitely not worth keeping. Organic garbage goes down the outhouse hole of course, and as Arthur trudges out with that, he notes more animal prints in the snow. Rabbit tracks, a few deer tracks . . .

One set of paw prints are a bit like Tyro's, but . . .

. . . bigger.

When he returns to the cabin, Arthur gets out the guns and quietly begins to clean them, carefully taking them apart on the desk top and checking them over, focusing carefully on each part. He's glad that neither Ariadne nor Eames seem to notice what he's doing, and Arthur isn't about to alarm either of them with what he's seen.

He feels a surge of fierce protectiveness thrumming in his veins, and that makes it very easy to focus on getting the weapons in good working order. This is more than just being a point man, Arthur realizes. This mindset, this changed circumstance feels like something he's been looking for through the years.

It feels right, and good.

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne moves from room to room, quietly cleaning and straightening and doing everything she can to keep from disturbing Eames. She dusts and makes the bed again, and wanders around outside, picking out fresh kindling to dry in the box near the kitchen stove, and outside, she wipes away a few tears, wishing she wasn't so _weepy_ damn it.

It's stress, she knows. Circumstances here aren't normal, and hell, life itself hasn't been normal for ages, but really, Ariadne hates tears, hates showing any sort of useless weakness. It's bad enough at times to be petite in a world geared for normal people, it's hard enough to get anyone to take her seriously as an adult half the time.

She's tough, she is, but this is Julian, and Ariadne loves him and hates herself for letting him do stupid things that got him sick.

Later, she sits on the sofa with his head in her lap, and stokes his hair. He looks up at her with glassy eyes and smiles.

"Charlotte," he murmurs. "Sproggy."

Helplessly, Ariadne looks at Arthur, who draws a breath and comes over. He lays a hand on Eames' forehead, then goes for a rag in the kitchen, wetting it down. Ariadne lays it on Eame's forehead, tenderly pressing it in place. "Shhhhhhhh."

She looks at Arthur, the question in her eyes, but he shakes his head and bends to kiss her lightly. "I'll make some soup," he offers.

Eames speaks again, reaching up to touch Ariadne's face. "Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?" he croons gently. "Should be Pa-pa black sheep, I know, lovey."

Ariadne feels a sick helplessness in her gut, aware that Eames isn't seeing her at all; that his thoughts and focus are lost in the heat of his fever. Gently, she smiles at him and lets Eames ramble on, feeling a sense of helplessness like never before

There are some enemies Ariadne can't fight, and illness is one of them. When the soup comes, she feeds it to Eames, spoonful by spoonful, making him drink it down. He only eats half of it, and falls asleep after the last bit.

By unspoken agreement, neither she nor Arthur go to bed upstairs. They take up their places in the living room, and as the light fades, the golden glow of the fire brings a comforting intimacy to everything. She looks over at Arthur, the question in her eyes once more, but he shakes his head again.

"Not my place to share," he mutters, and although it's an unsatisfying answer, Ariadne leaves it at that. She pets Tyro and tries to get comfortable in the chair.

"The fever will break," Arthur tries to reassure her, but as he speaks, a strange noise cuts through his words, and Tyro's ears prick up. He chuffs out a low growl, eyes on the door.

Ariadne feels a sickening chill run through her, and hunches over, staring from the dog to Arthur, who's gotten up, and scooped up the gun from the drawer in the desk in one smooth action.

He hasn't done moves like that since they were in the back of the truck but Ariadne sees it's all unconscious and quick; learned to the bone, as her mother would have said. Arthur is a survivor; moves like this are why.

"Wolves," he mutters to her as the howling starts again, eerie as hell in the firelight. The sound is wild and almost . . . musical. Tyro's growl increases and he looks as if he wants to bark, but Ariadne pets him, and for a moment the puppy is distracted from answering the predators in the distance. Arthur has the gun ready and moves to the door, pressing an ear to the wood panels.

For a moment they're all frozen in a weird tableau, listening and waiting while the fire crackles and the wind off the lake moans.

Then the howl starts up again, making Ariadne shudder once more. It's faint but clear; a primeval chorus that makes her pulse spike, and every hair on her scalp tingle. Arthur listens a moment longer, then lowers the weapon and looks towards her, shaking his head.

"They're a couple of miles off. If you want to go upstairs and take the dog with you; I'll stay up," he offers. "I don't expect trouble."

Ariadne shakes her head and curls up in the upholstered chair for a second night.

A long, long, second night.

000ooo000ooo000

Eames wakes up and feels a hell of a lot better. He looks around; only Tyro wakes up with him, tail wagging, and as Eames sits up, he pets the dog. Arthur is stretched out in front of the fireplace, and Ariadne is doing a good impersonation of a hedgehog in the chair.

He grins and goes outside to take a leak.

Working quietly, Eames washes his hands and then makes breakfast, taking care not to overtax himself, making his own version of egg muffin sandwiches, using small pancakes. Apparently the scent of food is enough to rouse Ariadne, who uncurls and scurries over to the kitchen area, tiptoeing up to feel Eames' forehead.

"You're better?" she asks, and he slips an arm around her, kissing her forehead in return.

"Thanks to some good nursing. Although next time, I'd like to see you in a uniform," he adds teasingly. "Something short and white, with high heels and an open neckline to your adorable navel."

She shoots him a glance that would make the Sahara look like a rainforest and he laughs.

"A bloke can dream now, can't he?" Eames asks lightly. "Besides, I know Arthur would like it too."

"I'd like what?" comes the grumble as Arthur slouches into the kitchen area, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

"Our architect lusciously decked out in a naught-y nurse's uniform," Eames drawls out salaciously. Arthur's mouth twitches, and damningly, he doesn't say anything right away.

Eames can see that Ariadne is caught between laughing and indignation, her gaze swinging back and forth between the two men.

"You're _both _sexist pigs," Ariadne announces, and at that, Arthur does smirk. Eames loves how the tension in the room dissolves, and how even though the sunlight is thin, the mood is lighter.

Later, when Arthur is upstairs taking a well-earned nap, he and Ariadne are alone in the kitchen, sorting through a sack of dried beans. She looks up at him and asks the question.

Eames gives a low sigh. "Charlotte is . . . was . . . my daughter," he tells Ariadne slowly. "She wasn't planned. Her mother and I well, it wasn't a serious relationship, but after Jana ended up pregnant, I made it a point to be there. We never married; her mother hated my guts and didn't want me as part of the family."

Ariadne reaches over to rest a hand on his, and Eames appreciates the comfort. He swallows. "Still, Charlotte . . . when she was born, it was well-nigh amazing. Never thought about being a father, but from the second I held her, I couldn't stop. She was . . ."

He can't quite go on, and blinks, but something inside Eames steadies when Ariadne's fingers squeeze his fingers. His voice is husky. "Anyway, we managed. I was there half the week, had Charlotte on weekends, joint custody in the very best 'aren't we all civil' tradition. But one hot summer afternoon, when I was away . . . Jana was supposed to be watching her splashing around. The phone in the house rang, and I don't even remember who she said it was . . . and when she came out again, Charlotte . . . it was too late. She'd drowned."

It's the first time he's actually said it, and Eames is relieved at being able to do so. He blinks because his eyes sting, but when he looks at Ariadne, Eames isn't prepared for her anguished expression. She slips out of her chair and slides into his arms, and her hard hug squeezes half his breath away.

For a moment they're frozen, not moving, not breathing, Ariadne clings to Eames with desperate strength, and he finally stirs, caught up in the hard press of Ariadne against his chest.

He feels her sob.

Eames gently runs a big hand up along her back. "S'all right," he whispers. "It's been nearly nine years, love. It aches, but it doesn't hurt as much now."

Ariadne says nothing, but the brush of her cheek against his chest leaves his shirt damp. He kisses the top of her head and enfolds his arms around her for a long, long time.


	20. Chapter 20

Arthur wakes up briefly as Ariadne slips into bed with him. She curls up against his side and they both drift off to sleep again.

Later, he wakes up and tries to judge the time by the light coming in the windows. Mid-afternoon, Arthur figures, although it's difficult to tell precisely. He listens, and hears Eames puttering around downstairs, talking to Tyro; apparently they're getting along now.

Arthur rolls to face Ariadne, who yawns and opens her eyes. They look at each other for a moment, and then her gaze narrows a bit.

"You knew."

He nods. "When I did the background check on him years ago, yeah, I found out. I just never thought it was my business to share, that's all."

"It's so . . ." Ariadne trails off, giving a sigh. Arthur reaches over to stroke the side of her face. She's warm, and the velvety feel of her cheek is lovely.

"There's a lot we don't know about each other," Arthur murmurs to her. "Years worth of things I don't know about either of you. I can get the facts—checking that sort of detail is easy, especially nowadays. But getting to *know* someone . . . that takes time. And trust."

Ariadne nods. "Yes."

Arthur feels a rush of chill in his stomach. "I was married," he tells Ariadne. "It didn't work out."

She holds his gaze, and one corner of her mouth turns up; not quite a smirk, but enough to make him feel slightly confused. "What?"

"I knew that," Ariadne tells him. "Back when we were in the cells, you ranted about her, for like, half an hour one time. Her name was Tess, right?"

Arthur feels odd; slightly deflated and very relieved. "Yes. I . . . ranted?"

"Oh yes," Ariadne nods emphatically. "You went on and on about how you both rushed into it, and how mismatched you were, and how you were never going to get married again. You made me and Eames promise to shoot you if you ever proposed to anyone again."

Both of them stare at each other for a moment, and then Arthur and Ariadne begin to laugh, making the mattress shake. Every time he looks at her, they both start laughing again, and finally Arthur pulls Ariadne into his arms as he rolls onto his back, his chuckles dying away in the softness of her hair. Softly, Arthur murmurs, "Which sed was it? The amphetamine-laced one?"

"Yeah, the one where we spent most of the Dream racing and jumping around the rooftops, like some sort of insane Parkour course," Ariadne nods. "God, I could hear everyone's heartbeat pounding through everything."

"We need to get checked out," Arthur murmurs, remembering the particular session in question.

"I could check *you* out right now," comes her whispered offer, and he shoots Ariadne a sidelong glance. She slides a hand along his chest, reaching for the buttons on his shirt. "Eames sent me up; I think he feels we need some personal time after staying up and caring for him."

This is possibly the nicest thing Eames has done since making breakfast, and Arthur reaches for Ariadne with a happy growl. She growls back, and pulls him onto her, and they don't talk; they're too busy getting naked and putting all that bare skin to good use.

There is light from the window, and in it, Arthur savors the sight of Ariadne's body under his, pale and lean, her pert breasts sweet mounds just right for nuzzling. She arches up when he does that, so Arthur keeps doing it, slipping one hand behind the curve of her back and nestling down between her parted thighs.

It's easy and slow, sliding into Ariadne, and Arthur draws out his strokes, makes it a point to play with her nice and slow, dragging wet kisses all along her face and chest, dropping his mouth down on hers for deeper kisses. Ariadne mewls, clutches at him and with growing urgency finally gives a breathless low growl as her fingers slip down his ribs to grip his ass, nails clawing into the lean and flexing muscles there.

A perfect little bite of pain that gives Arthur a kick, sexually speaking. He groans, drives into her harder, and in the deep wet pulses of his orgasm feels Ariadne clutching him, inside and out.

Afterwards, he kisses her throat, and murmurs, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," she replies drowsily, "Not at all. Why?"

"Because there's some blood."

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne tenses. She slowly slips away from Arthur and rolls off the bed, running a hand along the inside of her thigh, and yes, it's faintly pink.

"Ari?" he's staring at her with concern, and she grits her teeth, trying to figure out what to say.

"I'm okay; you didn't hurt me," she tells Arthur, and carefully she reaches for the dresser, fishing for one of the ugly cotton socks in there. "But I think our days of easy birth control are coming to an end."

Arthur looks utterly chagrined, his expression twisted between concern and wariness, so Ariadne takes pity on him as she wipes her thighs. "It's just a little breakthrough bleeding. I'm not having a period just yet, but chances are good I'll have one soon. Probably not even a very long one. Damn."

"Awkward," Arthur mutters, but he slides out of bed, naked and slips his arms around her. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes," she assures him, smiling when he kisses her temple. "But I think I could use a bath."

It doesn't take long. Eames brings in the tub and gets the water going, clucking a bit and being solicitous while she climbs in. Tyro keeps trying to drink the water until Arthur shoos him away and he settles sulkily by the fire.

Ariadne stares up at both men. "Stop hovering. I feel self-conscious enough already without you two looking at me like I'm going to blow up."

"So what do you want us to do?" Arthur asks in a low, practical voice.

Ariadne thinks for a moment, then looks to Eames. "Show Arthur how to fish," she tells him. "Wear the parka, and don't stay out long."

"Yes, Mummy," Eames shoots back, but there's a quirk of a smile on his lips. "Can we have hot cocoa and cookies when we get back?"

"Julian—" Ariadne warns gently, and he nods, looking serious.

"No relapses," he promises. "We haven't enough aspirin to cover us both."

They leave her to her bath, and Ariadne waits until all three of them are gone to unclench the tension between her shoulders. She gives a deep gusty sigh and leans back, thinking hard.

The injection must be wearing off, and now that she can focus a bit on her body, she feels some of the familiar signs. Some water retention, some aches—little things that she's ignored because the basics of surviving tend to hold most of her attention. But now that Ariadne feels it, she considers her situation and tries to think practically. Periods in primitive situations are something she's coped with before, and automatically Ariadne thinks back to some of the digs with her mother; sites that were miles from convenience stores and the benefits of civilization.

Socks. Clean socks work as emergency pads of course, cotton ones being the best. She can work with two pairs if this is a light period, washing them out and alternating them once they're clean and dry again. Ariadne is sure that both Arthur and Eames will be a tad squicked, but they'll simply have to cope; one more situation to deal with.

She splashes the bathwater on her shoulders and frowns, thinking ahead with rueful frustration—no birth control means the three of them will have to be more careful now, and that's a new area as well. Ariadne trusts them, yes, but certainly they're not in a situation right now to take risks. Maybe later, once they're out of Russia and back home, then the three of them can discuss what to use . . .

Ariadne blinks, stopping in mid scrub as she thinks back on that last thought, realizing that she's making a HUGE assumption about what life will be like once they're rescued. Thoughtfully, she bites her lower lip and lets herself consider that things may not stay the same.

In fact, the more she thinks about it, it's very likely they won't, Ariadne frets. Both Eames and Arthur are settled into careers and far more rooted in their own lives. None of them have talked much about the age differences between them, but Ariadne senses that what doesn't matter here is going to make a difference back in the civilized world.

And that annoys her. Ariadne decides that although she can't predict the future, she can choose right here and now to fight for this relationship. Arthur and Eames are _hers,_ and society is simply going to have to put up with it.

Smirking to herself, Ariadne finishes her bath.

000ooo000ooo000

Eames loves to give Arthur directions. Part of it because he has a naturally tendency to manipulate others, yes—Eames has never denied it—but also, because it's fun. So directing Arthur to pick up rocks and heave them off the dock is delightful to watch.

Arthur seems to have a different perception of how fun all this is. He throws the first rock like a shot put, and while it's a damned good throw, Eames points out that the hole it has created is now too far away to accurately cast the line into.

"Well why the hell didn't you say something before I threw?" comes Arthur's peevish comment. Eames laughs, his breath making puffs in the cold air.

"Because you needed to get some of that anger vented, darling. Be honest; you're worried about our sweetheart and you'd like to punch something."

Arthur spins and shoots Eames a look of dawning suspicion. "And you _aren't_?"

"Of course I'm worried," Eames assures him, handing Arthur another large rock. "Looking after the two of you is definitely a full-time venture, but the perks are phenomenal, so I'm keeping the job, dog or no dog."

"_You're _the one looking after _us?"_ Arthur hoots, dropping the stone off the end of the pier. The crack sounds a bit like a muted gunshot, and a geyser of cold water shoots up out of the hole.

"Well of course I am," Eames tells him lightly. "Feeding you, making sure you're warm at night, checking to make sure you're wearing clean underwear . . . _when_ you're wearing underwear."

That makes Arthur blush a bit, but he manages to bait the hook and drop the line into the hole before speaking again. "You know what her period means, Eames, and it's more than just the obvious."

"Certainly," Eames replies, rubbing his nose and speaking in a quick, serious tone. "For one, it's indicative of exactly how long we've been fucking stranded. Ariadne got that injection within two days of our being grabbed, so on the face of it, we've been gone from the public eye for very nearly four months. It also means that her dose was probably lesser due to her adorable petite-ness, so she's on her way to returning to a regular cycle. And _that_ means we'll have to practice some alternative options in bed for the time being, and begin a serious discussion of what we'll want to use for contraception on a long-term basis later on. Did I miss anything, love?"

Arthur is silent, and Eames studies his profile, noting again those high cheekbones and austere lines that make him look unexpectedly beautiful at times.

Eames sighs. "Clearly I must have; speak up, Arthur."

"All this . . . it's not going to be the same out there. _Back_ there," he mutters, tucking his chin down, his voice grave. "We worked together as a team, but that was all business, Julian. What if Ari doesn't want . . . this. You and me. You _or_ me?"

"Ah," Eames sighs. It is a thought that's crossed his mind too, a bleak consideration that isn't going to disappear easily. "Yes, well as the cliché goes, we'll cross that bridge, la-di-dah-di-dah. Judging by the creaking and thumping coming from upstairs this afternoon, I'm fairly sure our petite chou was as into the moment as you were, so no problem for the moment."

Arthur reels in the line; the bait's gone, and he reloads the hook. "It was good. Thanks."

"No worries. I think duets are important too," Eames replies, being careful not to meet Arthur's gaze as he says it. "You and her; me and her—"

"—You and me," Arthur breaks in quietly, and he flicks the line out, letting it drop into the hole. Eames is stunned into silence, and Arthur snorts. "Oh come on; I know you've thought about it."

"Yes, well thinking and _doing_ aren't always in the same neighborhood," Eames replies softly. "You've made your heterosexuality your standard, darling."

Arthur says nothing for a moment, and Eames finds himself feeling unnerved by the slow appearance of a dimple on Arthur's cheek.

"Yeah, well let's just say I'm willing to find a happy medium. If Ari can love two people, and _you_ can love two people, I'm pretty sure I can get up to speed."

Eames snickers, and moves to stand behind Arthur, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling the back of his neck. "I love it when you go all Point Man, Arthur."

The end of the fishing pole bends, and both of them laugh.


	21. Chapter 21

The next two weeks are good; the fish are biting, the sauna feels wonderful and even the unremitting cold is held at bay by the warmth of the fire and the bed. Arthur finds himself to be a fairly good fisherman; old skills return and providing food gives him a sense of pride.

He toys with the idea of hunting rabbit or maybe deer; they've seen a few in the distance, and Arthur knows he could hit one, but his talents at field dressing are limited, and the whole venture is bound to be more trouble than it's worth at the moment. Besides, Arthur reasons, the sound of a rifle would definitely announce they were here.

So far the only signs of civilization they've encountered are a few jets passing far overhead, usually near dawn. Eames calculates that they're probably the run from St. Petersburg to some place in Finland, and seeing them makes Arthur uneasy.

Sure he misses civilization. God, the luxuries of hot water, and indoor plumbing will be great to use again. Wearing clothing that's not grey and mildewed would be fantastic; Arthur thinks of his wardrobe back in Paris with a sigh of longing. Hell, just having boots that he doesn't have to share with Eames would be wonderful. Simple things like coffee and Email and toothpaste are what Arthur misses on a daily basis, although he tries not to bitch about it.

And yet . . . and yet, this isolation has been, IS, good. It's pared away the distractions and left him fully aware of what really _matters_ to him now. Arthur's always known he could rely on Eames, and he'd been aware of respecting Ariadne, but now, the ties to them and between them are much deeper and more complicated. It's love, yes—Arthur is smart enough to admit that at least to himself, but it's more than love too. It's knowing that even through arguments and frustration and fear, the sardonic Englishman and the wry Architect are devoted to him; mates, partners, sweethearts and companions all rolled into a pair of unique lovers.

Never, Arthur realizes, did he ever think he'd have ties like this. Arthur has had friends of both sexes, and lovers of one, but the topsy-turvy ease of having both is still a bit . . . mindboggling. Not that he and Eames have done more than kiss and indulge in some mutual handjobs so far.

Arthur thought it would be uncomfortable and awkward, but given how gentle and aroused Eames was, the whole experience was unexpectedly tender, and Ariadne was clearly pleased to sit back and watch quietly. For his part, Eames made it clear that he's more than happy to respect Arthur's limits, but Arthur isn't too sure what his limits are anymore. Kissing Eames is as sensual and as arousing as kissing Ariadne, but different.

Different in an interesting way. An unexpected way.

Then again, being in bed with two other people who are making love and watching them is _also_ something Arthur never thought he'd be a part of either. He's not a prude, nor is he inexperienced, merely an intensely private man, so the unexpected revelation that watching Ariadne and Eames fucking is intensely arousing is a mixed blessing that keeps him on his toes.

And the hell of it is, Arthur realizes that the three of them can't tell Cobb about this. Not right away, at least. Arthur knows that although Dominic Cobb is one of the most open-minded men on the face of the earth, he's also a man deeply scarred by his own emotional mistakes. Any hint that the team has become more than a team is certain to make him re-consider keeping them together professionally, and *that* would be disastrous. So the relationship will have to be kept under wraps for the moment, until the three of them can prove to Dom that in their case, love won't be a detriment to Extraction.

Yet the thought of getting back to work leaves Arthur feeling oddly ambivalent.

Part of it is the too-recent-past, and all the forced Dreaming he, Eames and Ariadne have done; Arthur can't help but feel a surge of anxiety at the thought of going under again right now. He's not afraid, but the negative conditioning is there, and it will take a while to overcome that initial apprehension. That's bad, because in Extractions, any hesitation could be deadly.

He's got money salted away, certainly enough to live on for a decade or more, and the temptation to take a break is attractive, but Arthur's curious too, at who else has been affected by Net Room, and what the market for Extractions is like right now.

Still, the memory of Ariadne's wistful request to go to Cancun comes to mind time and time again, and Arthur finds himself wondering what the hell he'll be doing once Cobb gets them rescued.

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne hopes that they get rescued pretty damned soon. She's tired of canned soup and no drawing paper. She spends the better part of an afternoon drawing designs on the frosted windowpanes, frustrated beyond belief at how temporary the patterns are. It's only when she tries to concentrate on a particular design that she hears Tyro growl.

She listens, and very faintly, Ariadne hears a low buzz that sends a shock of recognition along her spine. That sound; low and angry, like a massive hornet-

"Julian! Arthur!" she calls urgently, rising up and peering through the glass. At her feet, Tyro is alert, ears forward, little gruffly chuffs coming out of him, warning the distant sound to back off.

Julian reaches her first, his hands full of tangled fishing line. "Love?" he demands, his expression worried. She cuts him off, cocking her head again, and after a second, Ariadne sees that he hears it too. His face grows slightly grim. "Snowmobiles. More than one. Arthur!"

There's no answer, and the two of them stare at each other a second in silent panic.

"Outhouse," Ariadne mutters. "Oh God, what a time to pee."

"If he's out there, then he's heard it already," Eames predicts dryly. "You need to get out of sight. Take the dog and stay hidden until we've checked it out."

Ariadne wants to argue, but as she watches Eames pull out the rifle and load it, every movement efficient, she thinks better and nods. She can shoot, but her gun skills are amateur compared to those of Eames and Arthur; getting in the way is a bad idea.

Carefully she whistles to Tyro, and they go up the stairs. Ariadne stands by the window listening carefully. At this angle, no one will see her, and her view of the lake and road is limited, but it's better than nothing.

For several minutes nothing happens. The sound of the snowmobiles grows louder then softer, but they don't actually seem any closer. Ariadne hears Arthur come in and have a low, urgent discussion with Eames before he calls up to her. "Ari, do you have a weapon?"

She glances at Tyro, who wags his tail. "No."

The sound of Arthur charging up the steps seems louder than usual, and he's there, holding out the stun gun, his expression that bland look he has when things are serious. Ariadne reaches out and takes it, her gaze forcing him to respond.

"We don't know who it is yet," he tells her reluctantly. "If you hear us speaking English, it should be all right; if it's French, stay put."

Ariadne nods, gripping the taser tightly. Suddenly, for an unreasonable moment, all she really wants is for the afternoon to be boring again.

Arthur slips an arm around her shoulders and kisses her hard, bringing her back to the here and now before he heads back down the stairs again.

She looks out the limited view that the window offers, and waits, every muscle tense.

Fears rise up with painful swiftness, and Ariadne shivers, remembering the cold of the cells, and the mind-numbing boredom of the weeks broken up by the crapshoot of drugged Dreams.

Not that; not those, she prays. Not again. It scares her how her fear is morphing into anger so, so swiftly. She thinks of Arthur and Eames, and the fury within her sharpens against the nameless beings out there on the snowmobiles, threatening the two she loves. Ariadne grits her teeth and it's only when Tyro whimpers that she realizes she's growled a little herself.

Then one of the snowmobile engines blares, and she knows it's close, passing somewhere along the road between the cabin and the pier.

_Did they go out there today? Are there visible footprints in the snow?_ Ariadne's fingers tighten on the taser until her knuckles are white and bloodless.

More waiting, and somewhere in the middle of it, Ariadne decides that hiding upstairs is stupid; she'll stand with Julian and Arthur where she belongs, damn it. Ariadne paces to the stairs and heads down them.

A new sound reaches her, and for a moment she's confused. It's been months since Ariadne heard anything other than voices and random sounds, but this is music.

She grips the railing with one hand, and closes her eyes, feeling a sense of vertigo and deja-vu.

_Is this . . ._

_A . . ._

_kick?_

000ooo000ooo000

The music is loud enough to echo through the air, and Eames knows the tune all too well; he looks at Arthur, who gives a nod of acknowledgement as they brace themselves against the side of the downstairs window.

"You call, love," Eames whispers to him. "Dream? Reality?"

"If this has been MY dream, I would have thought up rooms at the George V and not some crummy cabin in the woods," Arthur snaps back. "And nobody outside of the Inception job knew about the Piaf kick. It *has* to be Cobb."

"Good point," Eames agrees. "So how do we play this?"

Arthur doesn't respond right away because the sound of the snowmobiles has gotten loud enough to indicate they're just a few yards off. Eames feels his heart thumping hard, reacting to the adrenaline coursing through him, tensing his body, sharpening his senses.

It's all at stake; everything now—take the risk that it's Cobb's people out there and signal them, or hold back and wait for further proof. He lifts the edge of the curtain with the muzzle of the shotgun, and peeks out while Arthur does the same thing from the other side.

The snowmobile is bright blue, startlingly so against the snow. Eames notes it's a two seater but holds only the operator, who is in a snowsuit and goggles, long blonde hair streaming down. There seems to be some sort of design on the front of the suit.

"Jesus—look at his chest," Arthur mutters to Eames. As the rider gets off the snowmobile, the design becomes more visible.

It's two crossed lines, and in each quadrant is a familiar shape embroidered on the outfit: One shows a die, the other a poker chip, the next a chess bishop and the last design is a small, silver top.

"Oh bloody hell!" Eames breathes, just as Ariadne comes down the stairs. "First Edith, and now this; I think we're seeing the cavalry, loves!"

Arthur nods tightly. "All four. Net Room might know ours, but they wouldn't know Dom's. All right, I'm going out—cover me from the window until I clear it."

"Arthur!" Ariadne calls, and darts over, kissing him. Arthur kisses her back and slips out of her arms to open the door. He steps out, and Eames sees the snow-mobiler look up at him.

"Mister Brewster?" the other man asks politely, in accented English.

"Who wants to know?" Arthur replies in a neutral tone, the gun in his hand obvious.

"My name is Pirkka Koskinen, and I'm here to take you to see Mr. Charles," the other man replies uncertainly, eyeing the weapon. "Yes?"

"Prove it," Arthur demands, and Eames is glad that even then, he's being cautious. Koskinen pats his pocket, and after being given permission to go into it, pulls out a paper, handing it to Arthur.

As Eames watches him read the note, he sees Arthur's shoulders loosen, watches him lower the gun. A second snowmobile pulls up, and that's when Arthur looks to the cabin and nods, a faint smile on his face.

The next half hour is almost like a dream; Koskinen's partner is a doctor, who checks them over briefly, and then cell phones come out; Dom is on the speaker, his voice clearly relieved.

"I'm in Paris; I can be in Helsinki in a day," he assures them. "Koskinen has your passports and we're tracking your whole party now. Christ, don't ever do this to me _again_, guys—"

"Yeah, well it wasn't exactly intentional," Arthur growls at the phone. "Trust me."

That makes Dom laugh, and Eames feels a twinge of . . . jealousy at the clear and easy camaraderie with Arthur. He knows perfectly well that the two of them have an old and long-standing friendship, so this flicker of reaction is unexpected. Eames clears his throat, and pushes his annoyance aside.

"Right, so how do you plan on getting the four of us out, then?"

There's a pause on the line, and then Dom asks uncertainly, "Uh, the _four_ of you?"

"That's right; we've had a little addition since we last spoke with you" Eames informs him, shooting a glance from Ariadne to Arthur and then down to Tyro.

Koskinen looks amused; over the line, Dom inhales sharply.

"Eames—!"

"—It's all right, Mr. Charles," Koskinen breaks in smoothly. "We can transport the . . .um . . . little one as well."

It's a giddy moment; Ariadne has been holding back her giggles, but can't anymore, and lets them out. Eames laughs as well, and even Arthur chuckles before picking up the phone. "Just so you know, Dom-he's got Eames' eyes."

"And Arthur's ears," Eames calls out, wanting the last word, "very _definitely_ Arthur's ears."

Tyro pricks them up and wags his tail.


End file.
